Windows to the Souls
by Chaot1kShadow5
Summary: Eyes have long been considered the gateways to understanding a living being, and yet the most fascinating tales are told by the ones that remain closed. A series of one-shots telling the last moments of various bosses in the Soulsbourne universe from their perspective. Rated T to be safe.
1. Window 1 - Gravelord Nito

He rested, as ancient, decrepit beings were wont to do - his prolonged (centuries worth of) rest did not concern him, however, as it was nature to grow ancient and decrepit and thus rest as long as he rested.

After all, it left him all of his focus with which to administer death.

Peering through eyes that Nito himself did not possess, he directed his servants and watched as they went about their tasks - cursing a foolish undead here, guiding a sword into the eye of a stone demon there, writing a message in order to trick passersby into activating a lethal trap... Everywhere Nito looked, he saw death, as he should.

Death came to all things, indeed, but sometimes it needed a guiding hand to ensure that none could disrespect that truth.

Unfortunately, Nito himself could not partake in the overseeing of natural progression - it could not be helped. He'd told himself many times before that it was solely to ensure that his servants did as they asked; to ensure that his servants respected the power and responsibility he entrusted them with.

That was true; the Gravelord recognised that some of his servants were not particularly savoury (never mind that no one performing this essential work was particularly savoury to begin with). Despite that, it was not the only reason he spent years laying in his coffin, overseeing his servants' work and blissfully ignoring the long-faded pleas of his old partners Gwyn and the Witch - why bother sustaining the Fire, when death would persist in both Light and Dark?

No; Nito also rested because of... Pride? Perhaps, because as silly as the notion was, he knew he could not administer death as he once did.

Nito did not trust any of the company he kept - links, whether strong or weak, often interfered with the progression of nature - but it still nonplussed the Gravelord when one of his servants dared to siphon his power into performing its twisted experiments (like the curious, disdainful Dragon - spitting in the face of nature in order to become _immortal_ ). Despite that, he was not concerned when he first discovered the treachery of his servant - except for a brief moment of anger he allowed when he learnt of the siphoning's purpose (then satisfaction as the whelp was punished for his sacrilege).

Now, resting within his great coffin and attending to the duties he had held since he first opened his eyes, the bolt of concern others would have felt then - tinged with just a touch of interest - ripped into the Gravelord's chest the same way a steel bolt just pierced the lung of a sleeping mercenary as he realised that the siphoning had stopped.

How long ago had that been? It could have been decades - such lengthy lapses had occurred before. But no; the eyes of his puppets in the Tomb told otherwise. There was an interloper, cutting through Nito's servants with a sword and _as_ a sword, forging a path straight into Nito's tomb and towards his heart.

They had entered his tomb. It did not matter, Nito decided as he truly woke for the first time in centuries - they would fall all the same, as everything fell in the end.

Nito rose from his coffin, gravesword in hand and cloak rippling with a transluscent miasma of death, just in time to witness the eyes of his lesser skeletons close. When they did not open again, the Gravelord dismissed their deaths - all things must die, naturally or not - and indicated for his greater skeletons to accompany him in bringing the interloper to their logical conclusion. They raced ahead, Nito trudging behind them and occasionally sending his gravesword between planes to strike at the interloper, his greater skeletons battering the interloper into acceptance.

And yet, their eyes closed on Nito as he discerned the interloper's strategy - many had come before him, each with their own unique methods of cheating the natural order - leaving him alone to carry out the grim, necessary anathema of life.

For with Fire came disparity through Dark, and Death must accompany Life in that regard.

Nito rounded the stone corner, and laid his eyes upon the interloper - clad in metal armour, with a metal shield and metal-holy sword. Having seen that particular equipment on an interloper before, Nito recalled a precious solution and pressed forward, swinging at his prey - whom dashed out of the way and struck at Nito's form. Disinterested in his wound - it was but one of many that would have to be landed to kill him, and that was in his weakened state - Nito maintained his assault, striking with his sword on several planes and unleashing what explosions of death and disease he had room for (or that he could summon).

Yes, Nito was an ancient and decrepit being, First of the Dead and overseer of death. It should not have surprised him as much as it did when the interloper's sword severed the last rope connecting his soul to the living world.

The sensation was... Odd, to say the least. Nito's body struggled to bundle together and hold onto the particles that detached from itself, refusing to accept the way of things. Nito himself, however, only found himself ruminating on the reactions of other beings to death: some screamed, some wept, some roared, others smiled. They all seemed to refuse death or distract themselves from the reality, even as their perception of the phenomenon began to fade away.

Nito held no such concerns even as they slipped from his fingers, for he knew that death came to all things - naturally or no - and that he himself was no exception.

* * *

 **TEMPORARY UPDATE:**

 **Attention guys! It's me, the author-who-probably-should've-done-this-ages-ago! I'm writing this update because I noticed that a lot of people were visiting this chapter, and the count dropped in every other one. I wasn't sure why, so in case you guys are worried about quality, don't worry. I know this sounds (and more than likely _is_ ) incredibly arrogant and rude of me to say, but I started this to improve my writing, and improve it has. **

**Currently I'm working on some new chapters, and once I'm done there I'm going to update most of the previous chapters to improve their writing. I'm not asking you guys to check them out, I just felt like letting you know what was happening in case you were looking for a good fic and weren't impressed by the first chapter.**

 **Anyway, enough self-advertising and general narcissism; the announcement's over, so do whatever!**


	2. Window 2 - Ornstein and Smough

Standing around all day bored the Executioner to no end, he decided. Even back in the old days - when he maintained his place in the exact same spot, sunlight spilling onto the same spots on his armour, until every couple days someone truly heinous was brought forth to receive justice - he knew that there was a certain consistency to his dry spots. His attention would waver into whatever spots took his fancy, he'd be informed of an execution, and then the day after he enjoyed the thrill of taking a life; all that before the next lull came in to ruin his mood.

The doors to the hall opened, and some idiot no doubt chasing after that prophecy stepped through. Hefting his hammer, Proditor, Smough followed up that train of thought by deciding that - in spite of the sporadic lengths of his boredom - the battles that shook things up a little were worth the wait.

He was so excited by the arrival (it'd felt like _weeks_ since his last fight) that he almost missed the telltale *clank* of his partner dropping from the balcony above. Allowing his grin to shift into a scowl, knowing it would return just as swiftly during the fight, he sent daggers at the Dragonslayer, knowing full well that his helmet need not be removed for the Knight of Gwyn to receive them. What a stuck-up bastard - going _on and on_ about how he didn't deserve a place among the Knights of Gwyn due to his (and he would pause here) _habits_. _"Really?! It's not like I'm roaming Anor Londo, murdering people and grinding_ _ **them**_ _into seasoning because it turns out it works well with most meats! Wouldn't have thought people would care so much..."_ And how people so conveniently forgot the other atrocities committed by the Knights - the Vinheim Succession, the Founding of Blighttown, the Sealing of the Demon Ruins!

 _"And"_ Smough noticed how Ornstein was staring at him, stealthily dancing his fingers in the air to relay some ridiculous and convoluted plan of attack, like with the other Knights, _"how this_ _ **cretin**_ _has the gall to pretend, day in and day out, that I was never shamed before Gwyn himself!"_

Roaring a challenge at the fool, Smough lowered Proditor and pushed it along the ground, letting his rage and bloodlust pump his colossal arms and rip upwards, obliterating a column and missing the Undead entirely as the leapt to the side-

-right into a spin of Ornstein's spear. He hated the prick, but there was still something satisfyingly hilarious about watching the Undead's head snap back with a resounding _thwack_ before his body followed, thrown by the Knight's spearhead into the wall.

The fool lay still, crumpled in their armour in a sorry heap, and for a fleeting moment Smough was worried that his 'partner' had unwittingly cheated him of a fight. A moment passed, and then their form started to shift, slowly prying themselves from the floor and into a shaky stance, clearly disoriented from the blow.

...the blow that Ornstein had probably landed with utter perfection, in order to do damage and get prolong the fight for Smough's benefit. Fury surged within the Executioner once again, and he charged.

The battle continued from that stage as they usually did; the Undead, like all Undead before them, would flee before the combined force of the Executioner and Dragonslayer, leading them on a chase throughout the hall whilst taking advantage of whatever split-second opening presented itself. Usually they were also accompanied by a phantom, but not this one; perhaps they were Hollow, for no Undead could sincerely believe that they could take on the Watchers of Anor Londo by themselves.

Smough allowed his thoughts to distract him, which in turn allowed the Undead to ram their sword into his eyes.

They would have, certainly, if the trick-component of his armour didn't work as intended and led the Undead to believe his head was within the baby-face mask. Chuckling with a rush of schadenfreude, Smough grabbed the fool and slammed them into the ground with a glorious _boom_ , causing a weakened column to come down and hide the two away from the Dragonslayer. Kneeling down, he watched the Undead squirm in a desperate attempt to get out of Smough's grip (like a _worm_ ) before lowering even further.

"This is what happens" he began, "when you dare challenge the Knights of Gwyn." He truly hoped his grin carried through his tone.

The Undead looked up, then whispered. "I wouldn't have thought so, since you are no Knight of Gwyn yourself."

 ** _HOW DARE THEY._**

He brought Proditor down, again and again, on the Undead, only stopping when the result was a crater of cracked filing and broken stone...

...with no broken bones or armour. Confusion swept through Smough, and then alarm when he felt the Undead upon his back. Dropping his hammer and clawing at his neck, which the Undead was now working its way across, he failed to stop the warrior from positioning themselves in front of the slits that served as Smough's eyes. The world froze, Smough staring with rage at the idiot-

-who stared with a deadpan expression as they rammed their sword into Smough's true eyes.

* * *

Ornstein heard the colossal crash of Smough's form falling against the hall's floor, and spared only a moment to admonish the giant of a demigod before leaping to his corpse and beginning the process of withdrawing the Executioner's soul.

It was a dangerous battlefield tactic; it left the user vulnerable, and even if the fallen's soul survived the hazardous process, prolonged infusion of one's soul could jeopardize the host's mental state. Still, it was the only option the Dragonslayer had left to him - with Smough dead, it wasn't clear how long Ornstein's skill would carry him through the fight before he succumbed to the Undead's surprisingly vicious onslaught.

He flinched in pain, the energy of Smough's essence coursing through and changing him, healing him and granting him the giant's strength. _"I swear upon a mountain of Dragons I will serve you, my Lord."_

He clenched his fist, and realized he could see the remaining column capitals because he stood at their level. _"I will honor Lordran in the defence of Anor Londo."_

He held his spear out to his side, grunting a challenge and testing his newfound power. _"I swear to protect the life of your Daughter of Sunlight with my life."_

He called the lightning within, and slung it forth in the form of a greatarrow, using the distraction to leap up and slam his spearhead atop the Undead's new position.

Despite the difficulty it was causing the Dragonslayer, he had to give credit where it was due - the Undead fought well for a Cursed human. Whenever Ornstein unleashed a flurry of stabs and slashes, the human would roll out of the way of as many attacks as possible, blocking what couldn't be avoided and taking what hits were necessary. Their strength was impressive, as well; thus far their tactics had involved ducking between his legs and slashing with their sword, weakening the armor there to get at the soft flesh beneath.

He decided to address that issue, and leaped away to don the defensive rock-stance.

This time, the Undead encountered far greater resistance, and was eventually forced to backpedal as Ornstein pressed the openings available and struck at the warrior, eventually returning to the aggressive snake-stance to decisively end the battle.

Then, something unexpected happened.

In a fatal error that would have been viciously chastised by Ornstein if found on any of the other Knights, he had allowed his Lady Gwynevere to remove his left gauntlet prior to the battle against this Undead - sliding it back on as he jogged out into the Hall.

What was unexpected was that it resulted in the gauntlet fitting on incorrectly, and so when Ornstein's spear rose to block the Undead's slash, their sword was deflected downwards in an arc that nearly severed his left hand.

Yanking his hand back in pain, Ornstein suppressed a yelp and leaped back to assess the damage. There was no need - he realized in an instant that there was no fighting on with that amount of damage impeding his capacity to wield his spear.

Still, he had no choice, taking on the one-handed Basilisk stance and launching immediate, careful stabs to conserve energy and maximize safety.

It was no use; his carelessness had cost him much of his strength and focus, and without full readiness he was losing ground rapidly, until he tripped on the stairs before the Hall's centerpiece, landing on his back and dropping his spear as agony lanced up his ruined arm. _"Forgive me, my Lord, and forgive me, my Lady, for I have wrought false hope in your name."_

Still, he struggled, and for once the Dragonslayer allowed his voice to carry through his helmet as a growl of frustration and pain. He paused as he noticed the hesitation in the Undead's eyes - he could not recall knocking off the warrior's helm.

He could not decide, in his dying moments, what he felt about that look.

"Well? Will you not finish what you started, Undead?" Ornstein hissed, his honour demanding that it be preserved through death.

The Undead started, then recovered and took a deep breath. "Sorry, I... I suppose this must be done." They raised their sword, shaking just a little - though in reluctance or adrenaline Ornstein could not tell. "Well fought, Dragonslayer."

The sword fell, as did Ornstein's eyes.


	3. Window 3 - Great Grey Wolf Sif

The night stirred, the spirits within the Darkroot Wood flitting about in agitation. That was unexpected; there had been few who dared enter the remnants of Oolacile for some time.

The disturbance was getting closer - remnants of previous explorers were cut down where they stood, moonlight catching and scattering amidst their crumbling forms.

The disturbance was closer still - the parents of the mushroom children roared in fury, and yet their blows only struck wood and stone.

It was closer...

Sif opened her eyes.

Looking out from her observation post, very well hidden by the surrounding trees, the Great Grey Wolf traced the path the intruder had taken - from the ruins, over the bridge, past the grove...

The intruder's path was unmistakable - it led right towards his grave. She unconsciously growled; unacceptable. No one could be allowed to disturb his rest.

Sif raced down the hill, weaving effortlessly through the tree line in spite of her enormous size to reach the grave first. Despite her speed, she heard the gate open in the distance, which caused her to stumble and water their eyes _(because I realised I would never see his friends again-)_

 **Stop** , his solid yet gentle voice commanded, the vestige of his memory instantly dispelling Sif's distress. It would not do to honour the Oath in such a state.

Familiar resolve returning to her veins, the Great Grey Wolf slowed her approach to mask her arrival - haste would do no good now that the disturbance had arrived - and, as stealthily as possible, dropped down into grave site and paced towards his grave.

The stealthy approach Sif employed did not seem necessary; the disturbance - the _Undead_ , noticing their strangely familiar, armoured form - had not even noticed the Wolf's approach, slowly waltzing through and examining the myriad of weapons offered in tribute to the Knight who rested here. Seeking to capitalise on their fatal lack of awareness, Sif waited for the Undead to approach his grave _(forgive me for desecrating your memorial)_ before leaping to its top and facing-

The familiarity seemed to stem less from what they were are rather _whom_.

Sif brushed those thoughts aside and pounced atop of the Undead, even as those very fragments implored her to stop _(, don't you see it's them it's-)_ and let them be. Growling, Sif prepared to press her jaws down on their form when-

Their smell was familiar.

Sif paused, only to sniff, and-

 _(No.)_

Again... Sif's frown vanished, eyes widening in recognition. _(Einherjar - friend)._

The Einherjar reached up to stroke Sif's muzzle, the same way they did to comfort the Wolf as they _(abandoned him, how could I do that to my master, please forgive me A-)_

The Great Grey Wolf lowered her head in hesitant grief; they both knew what would come of this intrusion, and yet the Einherjar was acting as a friend whilst moments from death.

But... Perhaps, something else? Sif only had to protect the grave, as per the oath's command - it was not specified how. Yes, yes - Sif could offer them a chance to walk away having fulfilled their component of the oath...

A tempting offer for both: the Einherjar would walk free, and Sif would be reunited with

 _(Artorias.)_

 _(Please forgive me for offering sympathy to those who, wittingly or not, would tarnish your legacy.)_

Accepting her choice, Sif unleashed a keening howl into the night, announcing her intentions to the Lords, to the Knights, her master, and the Einherjar. The Great Grey Wolf winced as the Einherjar pleaded their objection, but otherwise Sif's motions were true, and with a flick of her teeth Artorias's great-sword was poised to strike.

She waited for the Einherjar to ready themselves, and leapt.

As the fight carried out in earnest, Sif fought viciously against the Undead and her own reluctance - _(the Oath demands a fight, not a lesson)_ , and so the Undead's mettle was not truly tested against the anvil of the Wolf-knight's teachings. Sif found her attention wavering between those fronts and the bitter memories of her last moments with Artorias, which she knew were leaving her vulnerable _(but I can't stop-)_

And then their blade sliced into Sif's left foreleg.

Neither the yelp of shock nor the growl of anger could be withheld, the Wolf's battle instincts making her momentarily forget who she wished to live - resulting in a renewed charge, this time driven by rage rather than dedication to the Oath. But it was too late; the damage was done, and Sif could not move fast enough whilst lacking a leg. Eventually, the blood loss and exhaustion from compensating for her limp drained her stamina and Sif fell helplessly to their side, setting her full attention on the Einherjar.

"Please" they spat out, visibly distressed, but without obvious wounds - had Sif's trepidation really hampered her challenge so greatly, or was the Einherjar simply that skilled? "Don't make me..." They trailed off, and nodded to their sword as if still struggling to come to terms with what had to be done.

Sif nodded, understanding, and attempted to present her neck for a quick, clean kill.

 **Your oath has been honoured, friend** , came a voice unbidden to Sif, and in her last moments she could have sword a pair of arms wrapped themselves around and cradled Sif's head.


	4. Window 4 - The Looking Glass Knight

Her reflection stared back at her with eyes devoid of emotion - they could no longer express any after her time spent in the King's service.

Studying the image before her, the once-woman known by the aspirants who came through the King's Passage as the Looking Glass Knight was as unimpressed as ever. Flesh, wracked by barbs hidden from view by her unblemished geisteel armor; muscles, uncontrollably twitching with decades of service and vigilance; her sword, slung upon her back and forged with a body to reflect her own, and her mirror-shield...

Her mirror-shield... Which showed herself looking upon a reflection.

With a start, the Glass Knight emerged from her introspective stupor and donned her helmet, resuming her standard off-guard stance. Finished with the examination of her gear, the Glass Knight hefted her mirror to her side and closed her eyes, shifting into a state of meditation to keep her mind as sharp as her sword in order to compensate for her body's ailments. Focusing, she noted the thundering storm above her, sending soft daggers of water to ping harmlessly off her form; she noted the afterimage of the crumbled parapet walls and colonnades of the courtyard, and how they would have been torn down and replaced if there were any remaining foes to defend the castle from; she noted...

...the sounds of battle coming from the Passage.

Immediately recognizing the commotion for what it meant, the Glass Knight secured her hold on the mirror and drew her sword from her back, poised to strike at the aspirant the moment they walked through the fog-wall. She did not expect such preparations to be necessary, considering the antsy heat gradually filling her limbs, and yet it was.

After all, whoever wished to join the King's royal guardsmen was clearly prepared, if the dying sounds of battle were any indication.

To steel her nerves, and to prepare herself for her opening assault, the Glass Knight breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, slowly and deeply.

Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. The sounds of battle on the other side had ceased completely.

In through the nose, out through the mouth. Footsteps grew closer and closer to the fogwall.

In, out. The aspirant walked through, the Glass Knight snapped open her eyes, and she leaped into the air, commanding lightning through her blade and slamming it down upon the-

\- aspirant's _shield_. She allowed herself a moment to be impressed by their endurance, then ran the blade along the shield, hooked the edge under her sword's crossguard, and flung the aspirant across the courtyard in an attempt to wrest the shield from their grasp.

Having created a lull in the battle, she quickly scanned the aspirant - medium bradden-steel armor, longsword, standard kite-shield, and what looked like a heavy crossbow on their back. Standard armament for knights, but clearly not of Drangleic make. That didn't matter, the Glass Knight decided - she'd cut down opponents with far greater armor of stone and metal.

Finished with her assessment, she charged in response to the aspirant's own tactic, both holding their shields out and poising their swords for a thrust. The aspirant stabbed first, sword bouncing off the mirror and leaving no marks whatsoever whilst leaving them vulnerable for a counterattack. She swung, missing them through their roll, and spun around before bringing her sword back down in an overhead arc, deliberately aiming just to the side so she could shift her grip and smash it into the knight's side.

They were tossed away, and the Glass Knight spared a second to chide herself for using the flat of the blade before stomping after them.

They picked themselves up and hastily adopted a defensive stance, and so the Glass Knight slowed her approach, coming to a stop. For a few moments, the two figures stood frozen in the downpour, lightning occasionally illuminating the arena and surrounding countryside-

The aspirant lost their patience and charged. Foolish.

Indeed, their reckless charge was easily evaded with a sidestep, and before they could bring their shield around the Glass Knight kicked them up into the air and slashed downward, missing their waist but shattering their shield - and, if their gasps of pain were any indication, the bones in their arm. Refusing to let the opportunity slide, she raised her shield to slam down on and crush the aspirant's head, musing as to how the many fighters who came through the Passage were so sloppy these days-

They rolled away, howling in protest, and stumbled before regaining their composure and raising their sword.

She determined that the aspirant was frustratingly persistent, although they wouldn't have reached her if they weren't. Deciding that more advanced techniques were necessary, the Glass Knight waited for the aspirant to begin healing themselves - using one of the curious flasks that could mend all but immediately fatal wounds - and swiftly called the lightning into her blade, raising it and then slamming it on the ground to create a stream of vibrant energy.

The aspirant capped the flask, rolled to the side, and downed a couple gulps of the precious Estus within before stowing it away and grasping the hilt of their sword with both hands.

They then immediately backpedaled, visibly panicking as they barely evaded each swipe of the Glass Knight's sword and backed into a column. She struck again, but her sword struck empty air and the column, before passing through and embedding itself in the courtyard tiling. Before she could chastise herself for her mistake, the aspirant ended their roll to her left side, and raised their sword before bringing it down on her mirror-arm.

To her credit, the Glass Knight made no sound expressing her pain - it helped that the receptors dedicated to detecting those neuro-chemical impulses were dulled by the growths throughout her body - but even without she could tell that her arm could not withstand another blow. The sword must've been reinforced with titanite, and even geisteel could not withstand-

Focus. In, out. As the sword fell, she called for aid from her mirror, thanking it for its service, and then drew her stump arm back.

Now to keep them occupied - if their sword was truly reinforced with material as refined as titanite, she doubted her chances of victory. That alone resulted in a spike of fear embedding itself in the length of her arm, realizing that this aspirant was especially violent; perhaps enough that they would not settle for passing her test. Resolve removed the spike of fear, and so the Glass Knight began parrying blows and countering when the opportunity presented itself.

She started making noise, liberally calling upon the lightning in order to distract the aspirant from the cracking surface of the mirror. Just a little longer...

Try as she might, there was no disguising the ear-splitting crack of glass as a mirror squire clambered out of their world and into that of the aspirant.

Whirling around in shock, they raised their weapon in readiness before remembering the threat behind them, too late to evade the killing blow launched by the Glass Knight. She struck the ground behind her, dragged her sword across, and slashed upwards to bisect the aspirant.

Only they dropped their sword and wrapped their arms around the blade, losing the fingers of one hand but otherwise holding on.

The maneuver nonplussed the Glass Knight so badly that she froze; in that moment of weakness, the aspirant grabbed their crossbow and loosed a bolt into the eye-holes of her helmet. She quietly hissed in anger, clutching at her eye and swinging with abandon at the aspirant, who grabbed their sword and rolled out of the way of her sword and letting it strike the squire, dissipating immediately.

Pausing to collect and focus herself, she crouched and started parrying the aspirant's attacks, but the lack of her mirror and an eye reduced the effectiveness of her swordsmanship, and so she found herself backing up for breathing room. The aspirant, however, refused her such a luxury, pressing and pressing their assault until the Glass Knight's legs bumped against the parapets of the tower. She couldn't glance down now, and she didn't need to - she knew what fate awaited her on the other side.

In a final, desperate bid to break their assault, the Glass Knight raised her sword and brought it straight down to cleave the aspirant in twain. Alas, the aspirant sidestepped the rather obvious attack, and pulled her arm down to the ground - being sorely weakened by blood loss, she followed, slamming to the ground.

She focused through the terror clouding her thoughts, and noticed her sword just in front of her. She reached out to reclaim it, already determining the strategy she would require to escape her situation-

\- and her arm was pinned by the aspirant's leg. The Glass Knight looked up the exact moment the aspirant's sword mimicked her downward slash.


	5. Window 5 - Sir Alonne

He clearly remembered the first time he had lain eyes upon the man who would become the Iron King.

To be honest, the impoverished nobleman would not have warranted the attention of any great man - never mind a great swordsman - with the state of is domain and own personal effects. He could have been called arrogant, selfish, even egotistical, and there was certainly much evidence to support that set of condemnations.

But he did not see those things - instead, he saw an ambitious young lord of the land of Venn, deducing that he could become a truly great king if he simply had a teacher - and despite being a warrior, Alonne was foremost a teacher, and so he elected to impart his wisdom upon the youth king.

And yet, he almost could not recognize the man who sat upon his iron throne earlier today in the court. Alonne did not know how the accursed artifact worked, but he understood that it granted access to infinite supplies of iron, and that the iron scepter was solely to blame for the king's descent into debauchery. Indeed, he was so distraught by the sight of his first student parading around his Ironclad golems and knights trained in Alonne's art that he had to retreat to his private chambers immediately to reflect on... his distress? Disappointment? He could not say.

In any case, the warrior reminded himself that the king was merely misguided, not inherently corrupt. The Iron King was once an insufferable brat who wielded his power like a giant's club - frequently and without care for those beneath him. However, time spent at his side in training, in pastimes, and during the war against Venn had shown him the deeper and more earnest side to the man - he sincerely wanted to be a good king, merely being clouded by his greed and self-image.

Alonne's lessons had taught him how to be an honorable warrior and a true king; perhaps he had simply forgotten what he'd learned. The warrior mused that it would be ideal to resume his lessons, starting with a game or two of sudoku - he missed the days where they bonded over their mutual interest in the game.

His meditative trance was audaciously shattered when the doors to his chamber burst open.

The only outward indication that the visitor's arrival was acknowledged was an imperceptible tilt of Alonne's mask. He was instantly furious - if they had arrived on this floor, unannounced, it could only mean that this malicious cur had committed prenticecide by slaughtering his students. His best and brightest, gone; it could not go unpunished.

Grasping the hilt of his bewitched blade, Alonne rose from his position on the floor and assumed plow-stance, ready to either attack or stop an attack. Across the room, the cur had the nerve to bow in respect - Alonne only offered a tilt of his head, as the memory of his pupils had to be avenged before whatever proper respects they deserved could be offered.

With the combatants done passing formalities, Alonne charged.

It elicited a wave of schadenfreude in Alonne to see the Undead throw themselves to the side in shocked terror - clearly their experience with Alonne's knights had not prepared them for their duel with the warrior himself. In spite of their apparent panic, they were not disoriented enough to fail blocking a swipe of Alonne's blade, deftly deflecting his blows with rushed but accurate blocks, and eventually found the room they needed to back off and recover from Alonne's onslaught.

Having gotten over the initial rage brought about by the deaths of his students, the Demon of the East obliged, and waited for them to press their own attack.

When it came, Alonne rose his blade to parry, and was caught in a feint attack that left a sizable gash in his shoulder armor before he could leap back and thrust, piercing their shield and stabbing their left arm. This time when the murderer pulled away to recover, he lowered his sword and dashed once more, bringing up his sword in an arc which severed the Undead's sword arm and sent them spinning backwards - as a firebomb left their hand, exploding harmlessly against his armor but distracting him long enough for them to drink some Estus and roll for their sword.

The two came to a rest and squared off against each other, circling each other with cautious stances. Discerning the distance between them and deciding it was short enough, Alonne drew his sword to his hip as if preparing another charge, whilst beckoning forth the spirit within the blade - a mysterious entity that tried and failed to master Alonne during his days as a squire. Mustering its energies, the Demon of the East slashed the air in front of him to expel its dark essence in a wave that sped towards and collided with the Undead, sending them sprawling and gasping for breath - creating an opening which he immediately took advantage of, dashing across to strike-

\- and being stabbed in the gut.

Alonne knocked the Undead aside and tore out the sword, realizing it would let his blood flow freely in exchange for uninhibited movement, and slashed repeatedly at the Undead, making several cuts and clefting their shield arm. They frantically groped for their flask, and were then impaled by his blade before being tossed aside, laying still and staining the tiled floor with their blood. Despite his best efforts, Alonne watched with a rare flush of denial and even indignation as he watched the Undead take a few swigs of Estus before getting back on their feet, the damage to their armor the only indication that they had been fighting at all - and the Demon of the East immediately registered an uncomfortable truth.

He lowered his gaze to the floor - he had dishonored his students. He failed to complete their training, he foolishly left them without guidance, and he couldn't even honor their memory with the just punishment of the murderer; he would not delude himself into thinking that, with his wounds, he could successfully bring justice upon the Undead. Affirming his path, he dropped his guard, reversed his grip on his sword - the foul-spirited, taintful, and yet loyal weapon which had served him well throughout his travels - and plunged it into his stomach, dragging it from one side of his torso to the other.

His hands fell from the hilt of the blade, too weak to maintain their grip, and as his thoughts slipped away he felt regret - not just for failing his students, but for failing the Iron King, who would be alone now that his trusted knight and friend had left him. With what strength he had left, Alonne raised his head and nodded at the Undead, whom he could have sworn bowed in genuine respect before the Demon of the East disappeared, his service to the Iron King ended.

* * *

A/N - Hello! Just wanted to thank the people who've left reviews and... read the fic, and... pff, you came here for Dark Souls, not my self-deprecating rambling!

Anyway, the current plan for the next couple chapters revolves around our good old buddy Gwyn, as well as a very angry bird. Before anyone asks, if I write chapters for characters such as Artorias, it won't be within the boss fights themselves, because their lack of self-awareness would make for minuscule works. Sorry :/

Now, to respond to the reviews I've gotten so far!

 **Lucifer.M:** Thanks! I haven't written too much before, and the last multi-chapter work I attempted fell through, but I'm convicted and actively reminding myself to keep working on this number, don't you worry :P

 **Tazaar123:** Ah yes, a fine dish that works well with a dash of sodium chloride! Thank you for the message :)

 **Skylark Eyrie:** Ooh, a long one, and from someone with a snazzy name! I'm glad you think the idea is a good one, especially since I've thought of applying it to other games before. I won't be doing EVERY boss (because some like the Gaping Dragon and Centipede Demon are terrible storytellers), but if there's only a few hundred words to say for anyone's encounter with the CU/BotC, I'm going to put them down.

I sincerely appreciate the follow, and I hope you keep Praising the Sun (PRRAAAAIIIISSSSEEEH!) as well!

P.S. I checked out your profile, and I think I can get where your favoritism comes from ;) *wink wink*

I won't keep you guys occupied with my crappy note any longer; see you next time!


	6. Window 6 - Gwyn, Lord of Cinder

_Preserve the Flame._

It was the only thought occupying the broken mind of a lone god, standing resolute at the heart of a sea of ash, and it would be the only thought to exist again - the man once known as Gwyn had burnt for too long to remember anything else.

 _Preserve the Flame._

The burning had also ruined Gwyn's body. His breaths were deep, ragged, and never drew in enough air; his legs, despite drawing energy from his soul to stand upright in defense of the Flame, shook and quaked like an old man's; his hands, gripping his trusted sword, grew tighter and tighter to maintain the same hold; his eyes, once warm and bright as his domain, faded to dark pits of despair, with nary a twinkle of a star.

Something seemed familiar about the dark eyes, but it would not reveal itself.

 _Preserve the Flame_.

His eyes could no longer see for him, but the Lord of Cinder could see through the eyes of his once-knights, ever loyal, ever vigilant. Through them, he laid eyes upon the ruins of a mysterious land - broken castles, decaying bodies, endless nights - and the scarce living souls remaining. When he saw them, his decrepit heart stuttered against his ribcage, and an echo keened in anguish at the ruin that should have been prevented.

 _Preserve the Flame_.

And yet, the figment left in Gwyn's place could not care; it could not care about the state of the land, it could not care about promises made to well-known faces, and it certainly could not care about leaving this charred wreckage to set out and rally his knights for some forgotten purpose. All he could remember was...

Something had entered the Kiln.

 _ **Protect the Flame.**_

Empowered by instinct, magic, and sheer strength, Gwyn leaped towards the portal into the Kiln and stabbed the ground, whirling around in a spin that would have slashed any surrounding foes to pieces. Despite the ferocity of his onslaught, the presence lingered, and Gwyn spun on the spot to face whatever dared threaten the Age of Fire.

The thing was humanoid, and... that was all Gwyn could discern in his frazzled state. The details weren't important - what mattered was

 _ **Protect the Flame.**_

Gwyn's sword swung out to the side, arm only firm enough to keep his sword from slapping against his leg and scorching what tissue was left while he ran, and then swung back in front of Gwyn as he came to a stopping feign and let momentum carry the blade in an arc that would have otherwise decapitated the threat. Instead, the threat dodged and jabbed at the torn garments adorning the Lord of Cinder's form, doing little save for forcing Gwyn to drop his blade in the ash and exposing himself.

The threat approached, perhaps seeing an opening that wasn't there. The Lord of Cinder needed a distraction, and called his power into his hand...

...manifesting an orb that elongated into a spear of writhing flame.

The threat rolled as one, then two, then dozens of spears were lobbed, each planting in the ash and evaporating as they failed to hit their mark. Still, Gwyn did not cease until the threat had vanished; he bent down to pick up his sword, and-

\- the presence lingered.

 _ **PROTECT THE FLAME.**_

The Lord of Cinder reversed his sword and stabbed behind him, twirling around and raising it to deflect the presence's oncoming blows. Time blended as the duel continued, each figure trading slashes, stabs, parries, and pummels at a blistering pace, occasionally broken by a tendril of flame or a golden flask.

A golden flask; the fragment from before screamed for Gwyn to shatter it. He stabbed at their hand, and the ash below was suddenly imbued with glowing nectar and green shards.

The presence's tactics changed; now their attacks came alone or in pairs, before retreating behind their shield and weathering the Lord of Cinder's next barrage. Victory was close, though, Gwyn could feel that if nothing else - the pairs stopped coming, their attacks were slowing, their shield recoiling further and further as they brought it up in defense.

Gwyn hadn't the presence of mind to wonder if it was because of blood loss or mere exhaustion.

His sword came downward, and his decrepit ears detected a faint *clang* and a scream of pain as the threat's shield was knocked out of their hand and flames crawled up their arm. They collapsed, clutching the damaged limb and howling whilst Gwyn brought back his sword and sliced, cutting off the threat's air.

Their headless body collapsed and faded. The threat had passed.

 _Preserve the Flame_.

Something that may have once been relief struggled through Gwyn's veins - the First Fire was safe. Trudging back to the flickering embers, he planted his sword in the ground between his legs and waited, prepared for any who would come to threaten the Flame.

...but not for the blade that pierced his back.

 _ **!?**_

Gwyn pitched forward, arms unsuccessfully slowing his descent into the soft, grainy floor. As he struggled upwards, a boot knocked him head over heels, rolling and coming to a stop

 ** _THE FLAME, PROTECT THE FLAME_**

Gwyn stumbled to his feet and tried to sprint for the threat, one outstretched and the other fumbling the sword that wasn't at his hip, but on the ground some distance away from him.

 ** _PROTECT THE FLAME!_**

The threat had no shield, but a sword in one hand and the other slowly reaching for the dying light of

 _ **THE FLAME**_

 _ **IT CANNOT DIE**_

 _ **PROTECT THE FLAME**_

Gwyn couldn't pick up the pace; the muscles in his legs had long since atrophied to the point of uselessness, and only the vestiges of his Lord Soul let him use them at all. Still, the Lord of Cinder refused to fail in his task to

 _ **PROTECT. THE. FLAME!**_

Gwyn's hand tightened into a grasping claw, reaching for the hand that reached for the Flame-

A sword buried itself in his throat.

Gwyn sunk to his knees, clawing at the blockage in his windpipe and fighting for breath that he didn't know he still needed. The threat turned from the Flame ( _ **dear flame...**_ ), grasped the hilt of their own sword...

...and ripped upwards.

* * *

Yes, the first "threat" was Solaire's phantom - at this stage, I imagine Gwyn wouldn't have been able to recognise of much beyond his mission, if he could still recognise anything at all.

Anywho, next up is Raime, and then I was thinking of writing a piece for The Last Giant, then Gwyndolin. Originally, I was thinking of doing bosses like the Four Kings and Old Dragonslayer, but I'm reconsidering it; the latter's technically been done already, and I'm not too sure if the Four Kings were really self-aware by the time you find them in the Abyss.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I certainly hope you're looking forward to the next one!


	7. Window 7 - Raime, the Fume Knight

A greatsword rested in the ash, coated half-up its blade and at an angle often attributed to the graves of legendary knights.

Something else rested in the ash as well, waiting for anyone foolish enough to fall for the trap to enter and threaten the life of his lady. Raime preferred the Ash-Dream to the real world - it was safer, allowing him some semblance of peace.

It also allowed him the chance to be with Lady Nadalia.

He wasn't entirely sure how it worked; according to Nadalia, she had fallen into despair and sundered her soul when she arrived at the Brume Tower, finding it devoid of life. Despite being a man interested in finding reasonable explanations, he did not let it trouble him - she gave him power, purpose, and private counsel whenever he required it.

Not now, though - nowadays tended to involve moments for relaxation, of simply knowing they were by each other's side. Was it love? Raime doubted it; there was certainly affection for the Child of Dark, but it was less romantic and more like the love held for tutors or parents - people you look up to.

In any case, residing in the Ash-Dream also had its practicalities - it granted the Rebel a chance to ambush any interlopers, and even a position with which to observe the entirety of the tower through the fog and ash permeating the Tower.

It was thanks to those advantages that the Rebel had borne witness to the interloper destroying the Ashen Idols.

He had no reason to be alarmed at first - Nadalia had once assured him that her Ashen Idols faded all the time, and were restored in various places - but that assurance vanished when he _felt_ a fragment of her soul disappear, claimed by the interloper. Nadalia's look of perturbation only reinforced his decision to vacate the Ash-Dream and await the interloper's arrival; he knew the throne room was their target from the path they weaved through the tower.

That was then - they had almost arrived.

Encased within the ash, the Rebel's shoulders twitched with every Idol that was destroyed, every fragment that was stolen away from her - and each time, he brought forth memories of his earlier battles, his earlier foes, his earlier comrades-

A golden warrior-cleric forced their way into his mind, and the Rebel viciously tore them apart before returning to his meditation.

Finally, the interloper was at the entrance to the enclave. Despite the situation, Raime felt a familiar wave of amusement course through him when he beheld the interloper's reaction to Fumigator, his greatsword; the faces people made when they saw it lunging for them was always worth the wait.

They got close, reaching with almost childlike wonder for the blade, and Raime decided that it would be an appropriate time to ruin their awe. Dark fog and flames rose from the ground surrounding Fumigator as he clawed his way out of the ashes, ripping it free from its place and hoisting it onto his shoulder in time to watch the Undead scramble backwards into a defensive position.

He took a moment longer to note how pathetic the Undead looked, with its patchy metal armor and quaking sword arm - they even glanced back at the entrance as if considering _running_ \- before leaping and bringing Fumigator up for a slamming attack.

The Undead rolled out of the way, much to Raime's bemusement, flipping the blade onto its side and dragging it across the ground in an arc which caught their legs and flipped them onto their back. Bringing his longsword up in a reversed grip to stab the prone warrior, the Undead clambered up and side-stepped before slashing at the plate protecting Raime - instantly infuriating the Rebel and eliciting a series of wild swings with both weapons in a frenzied attempt to destroy the interloper.

As they dueled, movement caught his attention from the portal into the room, and Raime spared a glance to-

...

 _...that armor..._

 _...that hammer..._

 _ **"VEEEELLLLLLSSTTTAAAAAAAAAADDDTTTT!"**_ He bellowed, too livid to realize that his epiphany was vocalized. He made to dash towards him and obliterate that glowing mongrel, but paused as he hefted his longsword. _"Not enough, NOT ENOUGH!"_ Pelting it at a wall with enough force to embed it up to its hilt, Raime raised Fumigator to the roof and called for Nadalia. _"Power, NOW!"_

Encouraging him, his lady awoke the soul-fragment within the charred greatsword and unleashed a monstrous cone of dark flame along the blade, not burning so much as cutting apart the structure unfortunate enough to be caught in its path - scattering ash and metal all over the arena in such volumes as to shroud it in mist.

Fumigator aflame, Raime roared and brought the greatsword around in a wide arc, fueling the flames with his fury and completely demolishing the entrance to the enclave. Whatever satisfaction he could have gained from the effort evaporated when Velstadt staggered to the Undead's side, clutching his hammer and already preparing miracles.

Shaking with rage, the Rebel screamed and sprinted at Velstadt, fluidly bringing up Fumigator and slamming it atop him before slashing wildly in his general direction without pause. It took several moments afterwards to realize that he had missed entirely, attacking the empty space in front of him whilst Vesltadt and the Undead chipped away at his armor - at least, before they noticed his attention on them and entered a cautious stance as he howled with indignation, bringing up his greatsword and planting it into the ground.

Disappointingly, Raime was still lucid enough to notice Velstadt and the Undead retreat to the edges of the room to recuperate, inadvertently avoiding the violent explosion that ripped from Fumigator's flames - still, most of the fire orbs produced as a byproduct connected with the two warriors. Raime tore out Fumigator while watching Velstadt with sick glee, drinking in the sight of his former partner clutching at his chest and gaping, clearly struggling to breath after the impact. Taking the initiative, Raime charged, this time roaring with victory as he prepared to swing at Velstadt as he looked up from his kneeling position and terror flashed across his features-

\- before his leg gave out.

Moaning with vexation, Raime looked behind him and noticed with a jolt that a sword - the Undead's longsword - was wreathed in blue flame and protruding from Raime's knee. _"How...?"_ He did not ponder his situation for long before Velstadt and the Undead's assault resumed, bringing whatever weapons they had to bear upon the fallen Rebel. He propped himself onto his functioning knee with Fumigator and swing his left arm out, fist connecting with and throwing the Undead across the room, whilst Nadalia - perhaps sensing the request forming in his mind - withdrew the flames into newly-formed cracks along Fumigator's blade and mended his wound enough to stand on.

He slowly lurched to his feet as Nadalia spoke. _"I'm too weak..."_ If he listened closely, which he wouldn't while Velstadt still breathed, Raime may have heard her panting. _"I can't heal your knee properly, and can no longer empower you. I'm sorry."_

The Rebel growled in frustration, parrying Velstadt's hammer blows and thrusting at a weak point in his armor. _"I can do without; rest now. I will handle these curs."_ Relief at her withdrawal ebbed into dread when he looked past Velstadt - a colossal feat in his anger - and noticed that the Undead was sneaking towards the chamber where his lady rested.

If they took the crown, Nadalia would disperse; they could not take the crown.

A new wave of an emotion he briefly recognized as desperation tore through his body as Raime tried to sprint to the chamber portal, soon replaced by agony when his knee protested against the strain. Despite the wound, he forced himself to speed up, and desperately lunged at the entrance as the Undead sped down the stairs. _"No! NADALIA!"_

No one answered.

Nothing moved in the chamber below, but it was clear what the Undead had done. the Rebel fell to his knees, hands pressed against the eyepieces of his armor as he cried out in grief. Everything remained still, at least as he was aware - without his lady, his awareness of the Brume Tower's fog was inhibited, leaving him blind and deaf to all save the cavern he resided in.

The cavern were he was doing battle.

The cavern with Velstadt.

Raime spun around, fixing his gaze on the recoiling knight, and the foundations of the cavern shook with the mad holler that emerged from his lips. Barely aware of anything except for the greatsword in his hand and the figure before him, he dashed and raised Fumigator above his head, roaring and howling at the cowering figure in front of him. He brought Fumigator down in a vicious slash, barely missing Velstadt as he rolled to the side-

\- but not the iron beam above him, splitting it in half and dropping the roof on top of him.

Nearly crushed by the weight of the iron atop him, Raime struggled to free himself from the detritus to no avail. Resentful, he thrashed and battered at the space in front of him, demanding that Velstadt return so that he may grab him and tear him to bloody pieces. Instead, the Undead from before approached, another sword in his hand and the Iron King's crown in the other. They paused, contemplative, and Raime was offended by their hesitation.

Then, before he could give voice his fury, they raised their sword and stabbed.

* * *

...and Raime's struggle came _just short_ of being the longest chapter in this series.

I should probably mention that I started university a couple weeks ago, and as a result may not have too much time to invest in writing. Granted, I procrastinate through games and fanfiction just as much as ever, and I basically wrote the entire chapter during the period between a morning lecture and afternoon tutorial, but knowing the workload that's coming it probably won't happen too often.

I hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading!

 **Update** **:** Woo, first time updating a chapter! So exciting... anyway, someone asked about the guy who helped the Bearer, and I wanted to clarify that no, it is NOT Velstadt back from the grave. They are an Heir of the Sun who happened to be wearing Velstadt's armor set (and using his chi- DA-DONG) when they went to help out; I thought it would be a cool reference to the mechanic that lets you trigger Raime's second phase early.


	8. Window 8 - Dark Sun Gwyndolin

In a quiet tomb, connected to a quiet chamber in a quiet city, a young god meditated to contain his temper. The light had long since faded from the sky, the signifier of his source of power emerging, but he could not evoke the words needed to completely soothe his fury, as the sun was never to set on Anor Londo. It did not matter, however, now that he understood the situation; he knew the crime, he knew the sinner, and he knew the punishment.

Gwyndolin knew what night falling on Anor Londo meant - someone had dared to tarnish and destroy the illusion of his sister, Gwynevere.

He knew who the perpetrator of this vile act was - none other than a Blade of the Darkmoon, one who was supposed to hunt down such contemptible reprobates with his authority and power.

He knew the punishment - for daring to mar the image of the Princess of Sunlight, the ungrateful wretch must be put to death in the name of Lord Gwyn.

Of course, that would require leaving his father's tomb unguarded, and that would not do at all - not when the immortals had long abandoned Lordran, and mere mortal men were left in their place, crawling and skittering around the grandiose ruins as they scrounged for whatever measly refuse was left to sate their hunger.

And so Gwyndolin Gwynson, Prince of the Lord of Sunlight, Dark Sun of Anor Londo, stood vigilant in the tomb of his father and waited for the miserable traitor's inevitable return.

Eventually, after some hours had passed, the great spiral stairs serving as a nexus for the walkways of Anor Londo ground to a halt, the silence that followed pierced by clanking armor and pattering footsteps on stone. Gwyndolin tensed, his rage returning after being dispelled and thrashing throughout his form, whispering in his ear to charge out and vanquish the filthy mongrel kneeling before the portal to the tomb.

They paused. "O Dark Sun, my benevolent master-"

 _"_ _ **SILENCE!**_ _"_ His cry echoed off the walls of the chamber and drifted into the expanse of Anor Londo's atmosphere, stunning the renegade and almost shocking them onto their behind. Gwyndolin permitted them to return to their prior position before continuing. "Thou has't committed a most vile offense, O Blade of the Darkmoon. Pray thee know what t may be?"

For a moment the Dark Sun believed their silence to be of withdrawal, and considered questioning them again before they cautiously muttered. "Louder; I cannot heareth thee, and speak in the formal tongue."

The renegade Blade stopped, then started again. "Forgive me, my great lord and master, but in a state of distress after a traumatic event I sought an audience with the Princess of Sunlight. Hearing her words, despite my hopes, only upset me further-"

"So thou killed her." He paused for the shame to suitably infest the renegade. "Mine dear sister... Lain base by a detestable, traitorous cur as yourself..." Fidgeting with his gilded necklace to set down his anxiety, Gwyndolin raised his staff, brushed it tenderly, and then aimed the catalyst tip-first at the Undead who dared to slither back to what was once a safe place for them. "Thou that tarnisheth the Godmother's image, I am Gwyndolin." His staff glowed, the energies of the Moon pooling into a bolt of light. "And thy transgression shall not go unpunished. Thou shalt perish, in the twilight of Anor-"

The renegade stepped into the tomb.

Unconsciously, Gwyndolin stumbled back and broke the charging of his spell, caught off guard by such a flagrant display of sacrilege. "Heretic... First thou offendeth the Godmother..." The Dark Sun's stance returned, and a new surge of furious vigor steadied his focus. "...and now thou see fit to _trample upon the tomb of the Great Lord!?_ " He waved his free hand, and satisfaction buried within the throes of his anger watched as the heretic collapsed onto all fours, coughing and gasping - his connection to his power was severed. "I am the Dark Sun, Gwyndolin!" His spells returned in a blaze of light. _"Let the atonement for thy felonies commenceth_! _"_

Despite the seemingly incapacitated state Gwyndolin had left the heretic in, they quickly returned to their feet and dashed away from the projectile, unsheathing their sword and shield before charging the Dark Sun himself. He prepared himself for the impact, goading the Undead into charging faster, and then teleported further into the illusion in order to further disorient his attacker. While they clambered to their feet in confusion, he prepared an array of glowing orbs which collapsed and spat fat beams of mystic moonlight out towards the entrance of the tomb, exploding and obliterating the immediate area they came into contact with. Still, the heretic charged out, and this time threw their sword true into Gwyndolin's chest.

He gasped in pain, teleporting further away and tearing out the weapon before tossing it aside and calling upon the moon once more. Weaving moonlight into a translucent barrier, Gwyndolin then directed it to his injury and consumed it to hasten the healing process, all whilst the heretic battered at the obstacle separating god from man - the son of Gwyn noted that they wielded a new weapon, and had the realization that they may have been carrying it all along.

The battle had to end, and soon.

The barrier cracked, and Gwyndolin prepared a soulmass whilst retreating and firing off moonlight-imbued arrows at the Undead, who had broken through and was struggling to shield themselves from the shards of light breaking away and stabbing themselves towards the heretic. Despite the punishment they endured, they kept charging, drinking from a flask whenever they were too badly wounded to continue and slashing at the Dark Sun when they were close enough, until-

Gwyndolin's back connected with the far wall of the tomb. He spun around for a moment, realized his predicament, and failed to suppress a growl of frustration.

"So, you've cornered me. Doth not bethink thy fate is averted, fell creature! " As they edged closer, Gwyndolin projected a sphere of pure, blinding moonlight, knocking the heretic back several meters and stunning them into submission. "Thy rightful punishment shalt beest metted out, in the name of Lord Gwyn!"

There was no routes to escape through, and no room to teleport or attack with spells. His only option, the Dark Sun of Anor Londo manifested moonlight all around him, donning it as armor and forming a wicked glaive with his catalyst. He met the Undead's assault with his own, parrying the first strike and flowing into a vicious riposte of multiple stabs and slashes. Failing to breach their defense, he pressed on, deflecting their blows and hammering their shield until it flew from their hand and left them with only their dexterity and sense of timing to defend themselves with.

Alas, his elder brother was the one gifted with martial prowess, and so Gwyndolin was swiftly disarmed. In a last, desperate attempt to pass judgment on the Undead - for he now knew he would not leave this tomb alive - he called for the many loyal Blades of the Darkmoon to roam the tragic ruins of Lordran and hunt down the monstrous hollow who would dare to violate the covenant of the Darkmoon.

The Undead's sword, retrieved at some point in the battle, pierced Gwyndolin's chest and pulled him forward when his strength failed him. Collapsed to his knees, consciousness began slipping away, and in his dying moments he could have sworn the Undead prayed for forgiveness as a curse forced its way between the Dark Sun's lips for the last time.

* * *

I didn't realise that Gwyndolin actually used something other than magic until I watched the fight itself - it didn't matter though, since I literally changed one word (or rather, added to it) to fix that error. Also, this chapter officially marks the 10,000+ word mark, hooraaayy! *party popper and horn sounds*

Anyway, I'm sorry for the longer-than-usual delay between chapters; I had a bit of writer's block figuring out how to write this battle since I'd never seen it myself, and I had trouble motivating myself to write anyway for a few days. All is good though! I've gotten back on track, and am eager to continue work on this.

Thanks again for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!


	9. Window 9 - The Last Giant Lord

_When the treacherous creatures from beyond the ocean came, they were dismissed as precocious explorers of a foreign land by the entirety of one's cortege - they aimlessly listed about, establishing camps wherever they landed and cataloging whatever took their fancy, which turned out to be everything in sight._

 _When the humans shattered that illusion, they lacked even the honor and dignity to strike at them in the sunlight, lurking through the shadows that their souls were inexorably bound to and targeting the most precious treasure that one's people possessed._

 _When Lord Jeigh was finally able to muster and lead a counterattack, a great number of one's people - from the children to the elderly, healthy to sick - were spirited away by the soul-seekers, their mountain of a king and his shadow of a queen. By the time the Giants had gathered at the shores of their land, those who were kidnapped were far beyond their help._

 _In their collective grief, the Giants within their great capital only stayed long enough to announce the injustice and pleaded for assistance before they left their shores for a full-scale conquest of the foreign "Drangleic". Jeigh remembered that day clearly - one had decried the actions of those foreign animals and sworn to burn their entire continent to the ground if it meant recovering those who were abducted, a rallying call to organize the steel-willed beings into a righteous frenzy._

 _Now..._

 _Now, one remembered the endless rage and sick satisfaction coursing through one's veins when the Giants had first made landfall in Drangleic - specifically a brilliant ocean-wreathed city that was brought to ruin by the literal weight of the Giants' onslaught. One remembered marching inland, stumbling across the mountainous terrain in a desperate search for the stolen generations of kin..._

 _...and the violent despair when they found their remains in a long-forgotten manor._

 _Jeigh's awareness returned to the blazing world around one, and scanned the horizon; the Giant fleet waited beyond, requiring the collapse of this fort's defenses before they could land and deposit their vengeful cargo. Affirmed and confident with the fuel of one's rage, the Giant Lord made to stride towards one's Vanguard - the trusted pair who would aid one in finding the device that would open the fleet's path - and was stopped when one felt their souls spontaneously gutter and vanish._

 _Was it the statue that blocked one's path beyond, the great stone head knocked down by a stray projectile from one of the renowned Hephaestan pyromancers? And yet it had just fallen... one perused the souls of those nearby again, brushing against and sending chills down the group beyond the ruin, felt their chills when they became aware of the Giant Lord's presence. A strange soul did not; indeed, it was completely alien, with too much composure and far too much strength for such a young soul._

 _Within that presence, two Giant souls resonated and begged to be avenged; Jeigh could only do as one's office commanded and oblige._

 _The presence approached, and Jeigh's assessment was correct - despite the youth of the alien soul, its strength and equipment felt anachronistic; it was not recognizable in its foreign armor, and when it spoke, it was in a tongue that the Giant could not place._

 _Jeigh quietly snorted to oneself in amusement, as none of that mattered; the hero apparent would die all the same._

 _Roaring a challenge, Jeigh's sword fell towards the ground and split the rampart with a crack, a yawning abyss opening and threatening to send the stumbling warrior into a fatal drop. Despite the odds, it still recovered, and alternated between sprinting over stable spots and leaping between platforms in order to close in on the Giant Lord. As soon as it was in striking distance, Jeigh feigned another downward slash and shifted the attack at its zenith into a sidewards swipe of the blade, catching the hero with the flat and pelting it at the fort walls, collapsing in a heap upon impact. The Giant lowered one's guard, carefully edged around the crevice, and then set down one's sword to better shove the statue aside._

 _Before one could secure one's hold on the obstacle, a yell of pain emerged unbidden as one's leg was struck viciously by a discarded war-hammer; the hero was somehow still alive. Renewed fury guided Jeigh's hand in a backhand towards one's flank - which scarcely missed its mark - and spun him around, glancing towards one's feet and catching a glimpse of the alien before they started-_

 _Climbing the wounded leg?_

 _It reached one's waist before Jeigh fully grasped the danger posed. Now upon Jeigh's shoulder - how did the warrior climb so fast? - the Giant Lord swatted with no small amount of desperation at the soul-binder as it fished for a weapon at its hip. Securing it and raising it into the air triumphantly, the giant slayer held the longsword in a reverse grip and plunged it repeatedly into Jeigh's shoulders, eliciting groans of pain with each plummet of the bradden steel blade, until one fell to one's knees and leaned dangerously towards the ravine in the wall._

 _Yet Jeigh was not yet ended; the Giants still needed one, and to ensure that their stolen kin were avenged, Drangleic. Must._ _ **BURN**_ _._

 _Vigor renewed, the Giant Lord roared in finality and clamped one's hand over the wandering warrior, wrenching it from one's back and glaring at it with all the hatred one hadn't already mustered against the king of Drangleic. Jeigh took a moment to watch the cretin fidget and struggle to escape - evoking images of spider webs and captive insects - and slowly tightened one's grip on the warrior, savoring its screams of agony and the convulsions of its dying soul._

 _A stray fireball, aim thrown off when the pyromancer responsible was struck down by a ballista's bolt, sailed through the air and exploded against Jeigh's left shoulder._

 _Howling, the Giant Lord listed forward and flailed forwards, inadvertently releasing the alien in order to secure a crumbling handhold. One needed to move fast; there was no chance that the parapet would remain stable long enough to climb up safely, so one needed to move quickly-_

 _\- one would have needed to move quicker than that._

 _The stone bricks keeping Jeigh secure snapped their connection to the rest of the wall, and one plummeted to the fortifications below, howling and swinging wildly in desperation and fury and despair and-_

* * *

The Last Giant, startled, emerged from their slumber.

 _"What had...?"_ As any being would when awakened before their time, Jeigh's mind was a muck, soft fur and soothing azure quietly snatching away its thoughts the same way Vendrick had snatched away its kin.

 _"Speaking of that cur, where is..."_ It began, but whatever queries it hoped to have answered died on the way to its mouth when the dilapidated nature of its former prison. A brilliant skylight loosed a few stray beams of sunlight upon the Giant's form, bathing them in warmth incongruous with their surroundings; broken battlements from the doomed assault decorated the otherwise spartan cavern, and stalagmites sealed to the earth what wasn't still chained to the floor.

Was it really that difficult for Jeigh to wrench their arms free from the cavern formations, or had it grown that weak in captivity? They weren't sure, and it didn't change the fact that Vendrick hadn't yet arrived.

Would the bestial king come today? He had never put off a morning visit before, trying to pry out what information he could - for what end, Jeigh never could determine. Perhaps this was some sort of ruse to weaken the Last Giant's will and have them open up the precious few secrets of...

...of their people. What had happened, where were they? Were they safe!? Jeigh's desperation struggled to give those fears voice, but their throat had atrophied with disuse and it could barely shout, pitiful groans crawling outwards. Even then, it didn't matter; the King would never understand their intent, never mind their language.

Nothing had mattered ever since the battle, in any case.

Jeigh allowed themself to wallow in self-pity for a few minutes (hours?) longer before attempting to return to sleep, sick of being patient with the murderer of the Giants. Alas, existence was not yet finished tormenting the broken grudge-bearer, permitting the reinforced door to open and allow whoever was on the other side entrance to what could be generously referred to as Jeigh's prison. They would not look up, not give Vendrick the perverted satisfaction of witnessing true loss in the Giant's expression while he gave a hollow apology and went through the same rituals that a mindless creature would when surviving on a day-to-day basis.

He had not yet spoken; as a matter of fact, his guards had not secured the bonds tying the Last Giant down. Who had-?

When Jeigh looked up, a number of things happened at once.

The warrior, now garbed in the tattered garb of a wanderer and wielding both a wooden staff and sword took a step back, caution evident in its expression. Next, Jeigh recognized that face for what it was; then a roar of unbridled fury - _**YOU DID THIS TO US, YOU DOOMED THEM YOU DOOMED THEM ALL**_ \- and then they was free of their bonds, bellowing in grief and scampering on all fours in a beeline towards the Undead.

They crashed into the cavern wall, prompting some stalactites to break away and plunge into the ground, and then spun around to scan for the warrior, frenzied gaze snapping from focus to focus to-

 _ **THERE YOU ARE, NOW DIE**_

They attempted to kick forward, but was rewarded by falling flat on their rear by overexerting their malnourished muscles. Too vulnerable for too long; the Undead was pelting them with soul bolts and clutching their sword stiffly at their side as if to ward off evil spirits.

A sword which had _plunged into their shoulder and_ _ **slaughtered his vanguard and SLAUGHTERED THE GIANTS FOR THE KING**_ -

Whatever coherent thought remained in Jeigh's mind vanished completely as the reality of this situation revealed itself; their people was gone, extinct, and the wretched abomination in front of them with the too-young soul was solely responsible. Yelling, they swung their arms with as much force as they could muster at the minute form of their genocide, but in spite of their effort the warrior-mage was evading each and every blow. It yelped in panic and dove between their legs, _so they swatted with no small amount of desperation_ -

\- and found nothing. They stepped forward and turned to face the cretin, but lost their balance and fell to their side, impaling them on a few stray stalagmites. Moaning in pain, they slowly pried themselves from the penetrating grip of the earth, and felt their arm come loose. **_GOOD, ALL THE BETTER WITH WHICH TO KILL THAT MONSTER_** **.**

Grasping their severed wrist firmly, a surge of hate propelled the Last Giant from their would-be resting place and swung the improvised weapon out towards the Undead, joined by a wave of catharsis when it rolled and came to a stop beside the slope of the cavern wall. _They set down their weapon to better-_

 ** _WAIT, NO_**

Jeigh fearfully returned their arm to their hand, but the mistake was made - their other leg gave out when the Undead slashed the worn tendons granting it movement, and so they came to a rest, staring upwards towards the sky that the Giants would never see again. They howled, this time in indignation, and noticed the pensive stance the Undead had adopted.

 _ **YOU TAKE EVERYTHING AND HAVE THE GALL TO FEEL**_ _ **SORRY!?**_

They rotated to face the Undead and reached out. At the same time, perhaps, it may have jabbed its sword haphazardly towards the Last Giant.

* * *

I am so, so, _so sorry about this delay_. Part of it was uni work and general life stuff, but mostly I was lazy and procrastinating when it came to writing this. I could offer a bunch of excuses as to what exactly slowed the rate at which this chapter was completed, but I'm not going to pretend it was fair to go on an unintended mini-hiatus without any notice.

Now that that's done, this chapter is officially the first to break 2,000 words! Yeah! It's actually 1,989 words, but _no one needs to know that now do they?_

Also, in order to write more often and to get you guys involved, I wanted to encourage you to send in messages as to who you want to see next! I can't promise that all bosses in the Souls series are able to be written about (*cough* GARGOYLES *cough*, DEMON OF SONG *cough*), but I thought it'd be nice to write chapters for the characters you guys want to see. So yeah! Just send me a message about what you want me to write about next, and I'll actually commit to it!

Thanks (and so sorry) again for stopping by!

P.S. I'm going to add those double lines directly above this message to every chapter to help differentiate separate sections of a chapter from the author's note, so don't wet your beds if you get updates relating to past chapters :P


	10. Window 10 - The Pursuer

The Hunt began anew.

It was alerted to the Pursuer the same sensation every time, and yet it still managed to catch the once-Mad Warrior of Alken off guard whenever it occurred. Each time he would kill his target, the sign would prickle at his senses as it chose a new bearer, he would track them down, and then he would kill them. Every single time, the sign reappeared, and it would taunt him with the inevitable eternity of his mission.

As Valravn approached from the great forest, the Pursuer knelt beside the mangled remains of the last Curse-bearer and reverently removed their double-bladed battle-axe from their rapidly stiffening grip, prying away the fingers and inspecting the bradden steel construction before stowing it away in the quiver on his back. Once, it may have been standard procedure for him to take the weapons of those he defeated - both as proof of the kill and to arm those sorely in need.

Now it not only reminded him of how little progress he'd made on an ever-lengthening road, but that he was laying down the stones that extended it.

Behind him, Valravn touched down on the stony hill and clicked repeatedly, hopping from foot to foot in agitation as if the ground were coated with rotting refuse.

"Sorry for the wait... this one took longer than the others..." Sometimes it surprised the Pursuer how gravelly his voice had become, but it was difficult to maintain a silken tongue when your usual conversation partners were a Giant Crow and bearers of the Curse.

It shook its head, briefly groomed its wing, and made a rapid series of caws.

The Pursuer glanced up from the previous bearer at last, surprise working its way into his demeanour. "Already? And so close..." He glanced at the corpse in front of him, made a gesture of respect, and finally raised himself to his full height. "Very well then, let's move."

Cooing in affirmation, Valravn quickly gained altitude and speed before slowly pitching back again, circling around in a beeline directly overhead. At the very zenith, the Pursuer propelled himself upwards and allowed the Great Crow to grasp his shoulders and ferry him to the next hunting ground.

* * *

The Forest of Fallen Giants - as it was called before the true fall of Drangleic - was often described as quite haunting by those who meandered through the ruins of the fort. If you were to look at the growths scattered throughout the fort and surrounding countryside, it may become apparent that the trees appeared to have limbs and what could be generously described as faces, and that was often when those who weren't already troubled would flee from the unearthly faces leering down over them.

The Pursuer, even if he had still been susceptible to such curiosities as fear, was far too elevated from the ground to notice such features with his peripheral vision, instead focusing completely on the newest Bearer's location.

Valravn's rapid quick identification of the darksign's spoor was commendable, but its duty was not yet finished - now it needed to pinpoint the hapless soul's location and end their miserable existence. Much to his vexation, however, the flora graveyard was restricting his line of sight, allowing him only glimpses of shambling figures and crumbling parapets; it would make little difference eventually, but it would significantly impede the rate at which they could progress the Hunt in the short term.

A sonorous call from his avian ferry alerted him to a development almost directly below him, and it was truly a sight to behold. The Bearer of the Darksign - for that was the only person they could be - was surrounded on all sides by at least a dozen Hollowed soldiers, and yet they spun, blocked, slashed and parried with the confidence founded by those who had just ascertained the nature of modern Drangleic. Given the number of wounds they received and how frequently they reached for the precious flask at their hip, they seemed absolutely assured in their victory.

If they survived, perhaps they could succeed where he - among so many others - had failed in the past.

Channeling the profane energies of the Abyssal Dark, a third of the mob harrying the Undead were slain before a projection of the Warrior of Alken's essence manifested on the platform where the battle took place. Senses having been relocated to the clone, the Pursuer had to admire the new Bearer's situational awareness - simply the muted sounds of the clone's arrival had been enough to warn them of its presence in the field. From there, the Pursuer stepped back far enough to rest without losing true awareness; it was essential to collect intelligence on each Bearer as they appeared, but utilizing such a tactic without completely losing himself to the Abyss was a draining experience, and he would need time to rest before engaging his prey.

His clone fell without the true expertise of its greater whole, and the Undead made quick pickings of the remaining Hollow in the area. Determining that it was risky to recuperate within distance of the Undead, the Pursuer searched for another vantage point with which to consolidate his advantages. "Friend, to the keep near the ocean walls - drop me there, then monitor the Curse-Bearer's whereabouts."

Valravn clicked and cooed in nagging concern - increasingly aware over the decades as to how depriving the Pursuer's methods were - and promptly deposited the Warrior of Alken upon the topmost battlements of the keep before diligently spying on the target's location. Briefly reviewing the Undead's general mannerism in combat, the Pursuer stripped away his arms and settled against what once served as a barrier for archers before returning to his fitful half-sleep.

* * *

A gentle string of coos snapped the Pursuer back into awareness, the sun rising beyond the coast and clouds cleared away.

How long had he rested? Clearly not enough to lose the Bearer's trail, or Valravn would be prodding him into preparing himself for another journey; instead, the Great Crow stared in contemplation as the Warrior of Alken went through his "morning" routine - a series of basic exercises to fully jostle his mind into readiness and ensure his muscles would respond to his command. The moment he exhaled and lowered his sword, Valravn cawed as quietly as they could.

"They're leaving? Perfect timing..." He adjusted his shield's position on his arm and once more tested the weight of his sword before approaching his companion, cupping its beak and giving an affectionate stroke of his thumb. "You will honor our agreement if the inevitable comes to pass?"

Valravn flinched at the sudden, albeit predictable turn of conversation, but nodded nonetheless. If the Pursuer should fall, his custodian would aid whichever Bearer ended his penitent mission in becoming the supposed "True Monarch" spoken of in legend; it was the only way they could atone for the past. Relieved that their duties would go fulfilled, the Pursuer patted Valravn's neck in appreciation.

"Let's move."

The command issued, the Pursuer was brought far above the ground in Valravn's way of communicating the Curse-bearer's whereabouts. In the pale dawn light such an effort was difficult, but soon enough he identified the silhouette which had bested his shadow the previous day, cautiously proceeding along the great, embellished battlements of the Eastern Sea as they struck down the royal soldiers who had yet to abandon their service. An excellent position with which to engage his prey; little maneuvering room would pose a great risk for the Undead.

Resolved, the Pursuer dropped his sword, tapped the talon gripping his right shoulder twice - a command and goodbye in one - and fell.

The Pursuer heard his sword connect with the stone brickwork - and oddly enough, the Undead's yelp of surprise - an instant before crashing down upon the battlement, wrenching his sword from the ground and mustering his twisted energies into action. He watched them glance around, eyes flicking between feature to feature to discern their next course of action. He watched them adopt a tentative, defensive stance, and slowly shuffle forward.

Then, he lowered his shield and rushed towards his prey.

Slashing upwards, the Pursuer reversed the path of his sword, bashed the Undead's guard, and rotated upwards before unleashing a vicious aerial spin - which the Undead barely evaded. Untroubled by the Undead's dexterity, he whipped around to face them and stabbed repeatedly from behind his shield, before bringing his sword skyward and planting it in the ground. Unfortunately, he had missed his mark and was left vulnerable whilst struggling to withdraw his sword.

In those precious moments, the sound of wooden cranking broke the tense atmosphere, and the Warrior of Alken was flung into the broken head of a sculpture by a barrage of ballista bolts.

The Pursuer slowly crawled out of his stupor in time to duck away from a thrust to his helmet, batting the Undead away and recovering his arms before charging again, this time wrecking the nearby artillery whilst hounding the Curse-bearer. As they became aware of their dwindling opportunities to counter the Pursuer's assault, they became more conservative with their strikes, and started scoring multiple hits when the Warrior of Alken utilized an attack which left them exposed for longer than usual. As a shoulder plate was cut free from its companion pieces, the Pursuer decided that this was no longer an effective strategy, and elected to unleash the greatest potential of the Abyss that he dared.

He repeated the opening barrage of the battle, including the very same sword-plant which had left him vulnerable before, and made a show of straining himself to bait the Undead. Predictably, they consumed it like a starving animal, rushing forward and winding up for a coup de grâce.

The Pursuer hurried the Dark within into his sword, and released it in a violent eruption of foul energy.

The Curse-bearer was tossed backwards, tumbling head-over-heels before coming to a rest near the broken remains of a ballista, and scrambled for ground when the Pursuer rushed and slashed at their prone form. The prey was cornered; now to incapacitate them. The Pursuer retreated behind his shield, waiting patiently as the Undead took longer than previously to accept the nondescript opening, and when in striking distance poised his sword for an impale, whispering under his breath and calling forth a chilling glow in the sword.

He thrust forward, and missed.

The Pursuer lowered his guard for a moment - leaving the sword in such a state was even further perilous than calling upon the abyss - and in doing so gave the Undead the opening needed to sever the Warrior of Alken's arms with shocking expertise. Gasping and stumbling backwards, the Pursuer fell backwards and desperately reached for the Dark within him, intent on annihilating the Undead if he could not continue on. As he prepared his final attack and the wretched essence of the Abyss tearing through and jostling his already damaged form, however, the Undead scrambled forward and ran their weapon into the Pursuer's back - cutting off the incantation and eliciting a hiss of pain from the fog-shrouded helm.

He was finished; part of him was terrified, fighting against fate to continue its mission even as the Pursuer's soul was absorbed by the accursed Darksign. The other, however, was filled with gratitude - for the Undead having ended his long journey and, in a sense, served as his final target to earn his retribution. And so, as his exclamation of surprise and agony tapered into silence, the Warrior of Alken died with a rare smile on his lips.

* * *

Thought I'd speed through the next chapter to... ya know, give ya something nice and tear-jerky :P

Anywho, thanks for stopping by again, and let me know if there's anyone/-thing you want to see show up and break your hearts next time!


	11. Window 11 - Chaos Witch Quelaag

"Quelaag, is that..." An haggard hiss, followed by a series of hacking coughs, broke the ailing woman's speech apart. "Is that you?"

The Chaos Witch in question descended the stairwell without answering, her other half shuddering as it weakly shifted Queelag's form before continuing into the miniscule shelter where her sister resided. It had been a long, draining day, and had it been anyone else she would have dismissed their inquest even if she was feeling generous; while the overzealous fool who kept an eye on the "Fair Lady" was knocked aside without hesitation, Quelaag surprised herself when she managed to collect and contain her roiling Flame.

She called to the many sprites within her other half's store, and entered Quelaan's home. "Yes, it's me sister." Same greeting, same routine; may as well go through the same safety checks. "Can you touch the ground?"

Her sister appeared confused - briefly eliciting a panic of alarm at the apparent lapse of memory - and then she started, realization spreading across her features. "Oh! Oh, o-of course, I- I'm- _hrk_ \- so sorry. Here." Dropping her humorously pious pose - Quelaag was always reprimanded for her sense of humor - Quelaan gingerly stretched her arms towards the chamber floor, strain adorning her face before being joined by some kind of relief. "Yes, I c- _ahn_ , ow." She rubbed her neck and looked up, presumably to face her sister. "Do you have anything for me?"

The Chaos Witch caught her sister's arm and gently brought it towards her waist. "Of course I do; here." She finally released the Humanity from their prison within her other half's form and directed them into the waiting hands of her sister.

As they approached, Quelaag could see the Fair Lady's already lax Flame grew softer and more uniform, until she had absorbed the cloud of Humanity and both woman and Flame visibly relaxed; the sprites were doing their work already. "This is _soh_ much better; thank you Quelaag."

The Daughter of Izalith found the strength somewhere within her to smile, and brushed Quelaan's hair in comfort. "Please, don't worry; I'd march up to Nito himself and demand a cure for your illness if it was the only way to help you." She turned to stare at the sealed passage - her only other options were her sister's pain-wracked form or the shriveling servant nearby, and neither she found palatable - and started pacing. "Today's been a good day, then?"

Quelaan grimaced. "Well, it - _hff -_ was, until shortly before you returned." Despite her agony, she smiled with such strength she could have been mistaken for one of Gwyn's children. "Eingyi has been lovely today, and you came back just as the pain was... coming ba..." She raised her hand to her mouth and coughed some more, albeit with much less ferocity as her previous bout.

Nodding in acknowledgment, the Chaos Witch ceased her pacing and gently lowered herself into a position just in front of her sister. "I'm glad to hear it, but I'm sorry I couldn't return sooner. My sources-"

A wave of the Fair Lady's hand silenced her. "No, please, it's - _cugh_ \- it's fine, Quelaag; I know that your 'sources' aren't always reliable." The playful hand gestures she made when referencing Quelaag's sources of Humanity held the chords of her heart for a moment, dread welling up and twisting her flame. "Besides, I still have you at the end of the day, don't I?"

A forlorn smile wormed its way into her features the same way the maggots from Quelaan's servants burrowed into the heads of aspirants. "Of course; the Chaos Flame will sputter and fade before I leave your side." _And I never spend enough time with you..._ "Say, sister, why don't we play that game mother showed us to strengthen our Flames?"

The Fair Lady in question stared in bewilderment at Quelaag, then laughed with more fervor than she had heard in months; what was so funny about that? "Ha- _really!?_ Oh, sister, I know how much you hated that game - you don't - _hehehe_ \- have to do that just for me- _he_..." Her composure, despite its rapid recovery, failed once more and consumed her with laughter, eliciting a fond eye-roll from her sister and fretful muttering from the recovered Chaos servant.

"Please, it's no trouble at all. Here" She held out her hands for Quelaan to take, and when their hands were clutched tight she sent her Flame tickling at the Fair Lady's palms. Smiling coyly, she let Quelaag's flames edge closer and closer to her palms to bait the Chaos Witch into complacency, before snatching them and ushering them back towards their source. All the while, the two sisters muttered the rhymes their mother taught them to sing with each move - every facet of the game tuned to improve some aspect of one's abilities with pyromancy - until even Quelaag was chuckling with mirth, her sister laughing with all the strength she could apparently muster.

Finally, Quelaag suddenly experienced an unexpected and completely overwhelming loss of control of her Flame, and her sister slowly edged the warm embers past Quelaag's wrists. "Haha, yes! Oh, that was lovely Quelaag, thank you." Stunning the Chaos Witch, her sister's eyes even forced themselves into slits - even if they were useless anyway, that they were opened even a little in union with her beaming face was a promising development. "I think that - _cmff_ \- this may be the best day of my life."

The Chaos Witch embraced her sister. "That's wonderful to hear." She pulled back, only to be wrenched closer to her sister with surprising strength. "Sister? What's-"

A wayward sniffle halted her words and thoughts, pushing them aside in favor of her elder-sister side heeding Quelaan's words. "I know where you acquire what eases my pain; I know that i-it's what you have to do, and I wish there was s-some other way-" A sob, and Quelaag clutched even tighter. "-but I-I'm so scared for y-you when you g-go out t-to f-f-find them, a-and..." Finally, the dams burst and Quelaan was bawling into her sister's shoulder. " _I can't h-hear you leave a-a-and n-never see you again!_ "

Despite being exhausted before returning home, Quelaag mustered her Flame and projected it straight into Quelaan's own, lapping at it like the comforting once-waters of home. "Oh, Quelaan..." Despite her wishes otherwise, the Chaos Witch held off her soothing words until she was sure her sister had calmed down enough to pay attention. "Do you remember what mother told us when we were asked to help her re-create the First Flame?"

She didn't respond for a moment, then nodded pitifully.

"Well, I've found that to be relevant all my life - even if some may feel otherwise, sometimes it's more important to let a Flame gutter out than raze the building that houses it." She kept brushing her sister's hair, even though most of the shaking had subsided. "That was true for the First Flame, and it is true now. Do you know why?"

She held off as long as possible, and was rewarded when Quelaan looked up. "W-why?"

Quelaag stroked her sister's cheek, removing the tears that persisted on her sickly face. "Because even if a Fire fades, there are always cinders left over. When you think of me, what do you see?"

The Fair Lady clutched tighter. "Your f-face?"

A _hmm_ in response. "And will you forget everything about me if my Flame were to fade?" Almost indistinguishable, Quelaag caught her sister's 'no'. "Remember this - everything I burn is to keep you warm, and you will still have my embers when I fade." The embrace returned in full force. "I love you, Quelaan, and no distance of any kind can change that."

They remained where they were for some time, until the Chaos Witch realized her sister had fallen asleep. Delicately lowering the Fair Lady's form over some rocks to create some measure of resting place, she turned away and addressed the Egg-carrier fidgeting in the corner. "Eingyi, was it?"

He started from his stupor, and bowed in a ridiculous manner. "Of course, my Fair Lady- erm, Fair Lady's sis-"

"Nevermind that" she waved, silencing his oncoming rant. "I need you to do something very important - if something happens to me, you and your compatriots are to protect my sister with your life. Am I understood?"

The Egg-carrier paled. "Pro-protect her!? Mistress, I am but her humble servant, not a warrior! Perhaps I can recall a more pwerful-"

"I'm terribly sorry, but am I not understood? _Protect her with your life, you pathetic fool_."

He appeared conflicted, glancing from side to side - essentially anywhere but the figure in front of him - and then slowly bowed. "As you command, my Mistress."

Quelaag nodded in approval - wondering how her sister could stand the presence of such a bumbling coward - and quickly returned to her sister's side to press a soft kiss to her cheek. "Goodnight, Quelaan." Having said her goodbyes, she left the chamber and settled down above the stairwell in her small alcove for the coming hunt.

* * *

A violent explosion caused Quelaag to stir, and then galvanized her into action when she realized that wasn't a memory of Izalith.

Barely pausing to register her current situation, she snatched her staff from the ground beside her and scuttled to the cave leading from Blighttown, knowing that to be the only way from whence the invaders could come. Sure enough, the previously diligent pyromancers barring entrance through the ramshackle settlement had been blown asunder by a large explosive, and a trio of humans could be discerned stumbling through the wreckage, coughing and drinking from those precious flasks that healed any ailment.

What Quelaag wouldn't do to get a hold of one of those.

Of course, there was the next best thing; the many Humanity sprites she could sense worming their way through the souls of each trespasser. Whilst intimidated by the diversity of her prey - one a knight with titanite-infused gear and talisman, a ranger with a crossbow and short-sword, and a sorcerer with what appeared to be a staff in one hand and a pyromancy flame in the other - she had no choice but to engage, for denying such a bounty of sprites would be to deny her sister comfort.

And that would not do at all.

Slowly emerging from the ruined tower leading to their shelter, the party noticed her immediately and backpedaled for the entrance, weapons aimed at her in such a way that was adorably precocious; these Undead were fresh. What caught her attention was that the ranger had stepped forward on his own and gestured for the others to halt, as if to try and pursue a diplomatic option. "Hello! Are you friend or foe? If you may be friend, may you please grant us passage to the Bell of Awakening?"

The Chaos Witch smirked and started moving forward, encouraging her other half to make as much noise as possible to confuse the trespassers; amusingly, it worked, causing the party to back away in fear and mutter to each other. Ending their conference, they branched out and surrounded her, denying any exit that did not require fighting through her opposition.

The knight grasped her sword with both hands and charged with a mighty war-cry, slashing with scarcely-controlled abandon and predictably missing each and every time. Quelaag had her other half belch lava all over the zealous idiot as the familiar pain of soul energy struck her abdomen, the sorcerer remaining behind his allies whilst the ranger closed in, ducking and weaving beneath the gouts of flame she projected from her staff.

Refusing to grant either of them the chance to absorb the sprites from their fallen comrade, she released an eruption of heat and energy to knock them backwards, speeding towards the spot where the knight had fallen. Fortunately, sprites were not at risk from the Chaos pyromancies the Chaos Witch employed, and so when she dragged the knight's body towards her, she would instantly claim her prize.

Instead, the knight broke their guise and stabbed Quelaag in the stomach.

Recoiling and clutching her wound, her other half roared and projectile-vomited lava across the arena, melting stone and cracking the roof of the cave. Despite its efforts, however, the party was easily able to outmaneuver the half-demon and wound it, slashing and damaging its legs to the point of uselessness. As it was overpowered, Quelaag's Flame was called forth as much as it could be, pouring from the Daughter of Izalith's fingers and driving away any of the fools who would seek to flank her steed.

They fought valiantly, but in the end the Chaos Witch was too disoriented - underestimating the exhaustion from yesterday - and her other half rendered incapable of moving anymore. Meanwhile, the party drank their troubles away and cheered, resting near her broken and hazardously bleeding form as they recuperated from the admittedly easy battle. So self-assured of their victory, and so arrogant; but they didn't know that her sister...

...they would know of Quelaan. Visions of Izalith returned, and Quelaag desperately struggled to find her sister's usual hiding spot.

There! She could hear some of those terrifying monsters approaching - _don't think of their names,_ _ **don't think of their names**_ \- but if she could spirit herself away into whatever hole her sister had huddled into, then maybe she could find a break in the apparent patrolling of those hideous demons and run away to safety. Surely there was a place where her sisters were escaping to, wasn't there?

As she came to the favorite hideaway, Quelaag forced herself to slow down and quietly approach the door; terrifying her recluse sister in the middle of this disaster could doom the lot of them. She paused, rapped her knuckles on the stone portal, and hummed the nursery rhyme their mother once lulled them to sleep with. Almost immediately, it was flung upon and the Daughter of Izalith was yanked into the awaiting space, her sister holding her tight and quaking in terror.

Any other time Quelaag would have admonished her sister for being as childishly meek and emotional as ever, but that would be hypocritical at the moment. "Hush, it's me, Quelaan, it's me."

The terror-induced weeping did not abate, however, and it was a few moments when it was revealed. "Wh-where's m-m-mother, Que-" she gasped, then continued. "Where's she?!"

 _Oh, she's fine, having been provided a lovely tree to protect herself after being turned into a bug and spreading that sickness to everyone in this cursed hellhole_. "I don't know, but we have to go; she wouldn't want us waiting for her."

Quelaag tried nudging her sister to the door, but found herself dragging her instead. "No! No, no, nonono, not without mother!" She was screaming now, and it was all Quelaag could do to withhold a silencing strike. "You know I'm not strong enough, and I'm so scared and-"

The Daughter of Izalith rounded on the youngest daughter of the family and held her shoulders tightly. "Yes you are. If you've made it this far, then you don't need to match the power of mother's Flame to escape; you just need her _strength_. Now come on, while those creatures have passed."

Quelaan's face crumpled again. "They have _names_ , Quelaag-"

She didn't let her sister finish that sentence. "No they don't." _Not anymore_.

Stumbling out of the hallway and into the open, desecrated walkways of Izalith, Quelaag scanned left and right for any approaching demons; satisfied that there were none, she took her sister's arm and lead her carefully through the desolate ruins that not even a few hours ago was buzzing with excitement and fervor - imagine that, being the ones to create another Flame! - now crumbling and being vandalized by monstrosities.

She tried to figure out where the nearest escape route was, and quickly recalled a passage way leading to the base of Anor Londo's walls - uncomfortably close to that decrepit hive of disease and refuse, but still - and immediately bolted as fast as she could along the path that would lead them to it. The demons had left this corner of the city, the Bed of Chaos' growth had started to slow at last, and there were no terrified denizens of Izalith choking the walkways to freedom; there were almost-!

The ground shook, and the two Daughters of Izalith stumbled; Quelaan due to her poor sense of balance, Quelaag due to the fear that overcame her. " _Sister, run!_ "

It was too late; as they recovered their momentum, gargantuan branches crawling with Chaos energy burst from the growing body of lava below them, wrapping the bridge in their embrace and weakening the pillars keeping it in place. One wayward branch narrowly missed Quelaag and instead wrenched her sister from her grasp, tripping her onto her back. "Quelaag! My- _agh_ \- my leg!"

 _ **No**_. Even as she rushed over, it was too late; the wretched energies spread by what was once their mother were transmuting her flesh, warping it and causing hideous growths to emerge from her thigh were the branch touched her - then her waist, then knees, then everywhere - all whilst Quelaan shrieked in terror and agony. In those desperate moments, Quelaag had no idea what to do; there was no time to remove the energy from her form, and it was already tearing itself into a hideous monstrosity. The only way was...

Without any further hesitation, Quelaag brought her inner Flame blazing into her palm, and drank of the essence mutating her sister.

The pain itself crippled her - a stabbing pain bent her double and nearly caused her to let go, and phantom pains worked their way up her rapidly morphing legs, but it was worth it - her sister's mutations had stopped as they reached her torso, and presumably the same would happen to Quelaag...

...but that didn't change the fact that they would find her.

The Chaos Witch gasped, her memories re-enacted through hallucinations retreating, and she was swiftly informed that her fitful panic had galvanized the party into finishing her off. Her other half thrashed in petulant defiance, whilst her Flame sputtered and gasped for air, fuel, anything; her thoughts were slipping, and...

"Quelaan, please..." In the outpost beyond Izalith, perhaps on the very same bridge where they were warped forever, Quelaag died.

* * *

"Quelaag, is that..." Quelaan sucked in as much air as she could and coughed violently once more, trying to get that perpetual feeling of something gumming up her throat out. "Is that you?"

Silence; no offended mutterings from her lovely Eingyi about being pushed around, no strained assurances of her identity, nothing. In fact, asides from the bell being rung for the first time in centuries, perhaps, there was no sign that the silent feet descending the stairs was her sister at all.

Still, perhaps after yesterday Quelaag's old self was coming back, and this was just another of her cruel pranks she played on the others before Quelana could get her to own up to mother.

"Was it difficult on you, sister? Eingyi told me of the intruders; please, come sit down." She gestured to a spot in her general right, then glanced towards the aforementioned Chaos servant. "Could you please prepare something for my sister? Anything will do."

Had her eyes been able to serve her, she could have easily picked out the distress on the pyromancer's features; alas, the truth would not reveal itself, and so he busied himself with preparing some sort of meal with what little they had. Smelling the delicious provisions, her other half stirred and-

"Agh... Quelaag, do you have - _cough, agh_ \- anything for me?" The eggs were foundering in their death throes, and it _hurt so much_.

And yet, silence from her sister. "Quelaag? Can you hear me? Quelaag?"

There was some scuffling, and then someone spoke. "I'm sorry, sister; I was lost in thought."

Relief flooded her every limb, and Quelaan beamed. "Don't be; I - _khf_ \- know how hard you work yourself these- _ow_ \- days." She retreated to her thoughts - wasn't she forgetting something? - and started. "Oh! Sorry, you probably want me to reach for the ground, don't you? Here." She slowly lowered her arms, but drew them back with a whimper of strain. "I'm sorry, this-" Another aggressive bout of coughing. "I can't, it's a bad day today. Do you have-" An uncontrollable fit wracked her form.

Eingyi whispered quickly to Quelaag, and soon a few precious sprites were absorbed by her weakling Flame. "Thank you... it's not - _kff_ \- much, but at least..." She trailed off, leaving an opening for Quelaag to deflect her praise as usual or snark about the meaning of her constant care, but still she didn't speak. "Sister, are you alright?"

"Hmm? Oh, sorry, I am, truly. Are you?"

The naked concern was so touching, the Fair Lady briefly forgot about her sister's uncharacteristically wavering voice. "It's awful sometimes, but things are always better with you around." She brought her hands to her bosom and sighed. "My dear sister... what would I do without you?"

Without any apparent warning, the Daughter in question collapsed to her knees(?) and wept, squeezing in a stream of apologies when she could. Stunned by such a shocking outburst of emotion, Quelaan extended a comforting hand - too far to offer a hug - and tried to fight through the persisting aches to ease her sister's pain.

"Quelaag? Please, sister, do not cry; I am happy, truly." Her mouth spread into a smile as warm as her Flame. "I have you, don't I?"

Despite her comforting embrace, Quelaag's weeping intensified, and for a short while she seemed completely inconsolable. What had happened? Why wasn't Eingyi saying anything? The gnawing worry and anxiety in her gut was returning, and she was as lost as the day Izalith was consumed.

Fortunately, her sister managed to calm herself down and preoccupied herself with stroking Quelaan's arm. They remained in such a way for some time, Eingyi muttering some excuse and leaving the two of them alone with each other, and it was then that Quelaag raised herself from her resting place. "I want to form a covenant with you."

Quelaan would have blinked, if her eyes were still capable of doing so. "Enter a covenant, again...?" Did she really need to do so? She had already done so much to prove her love for her siblings. Still, a request was a request, and if it made her feel even a little better then it was absolutely necessary for her to grant it. "Of course. Let me try..."

Taking Quelaag's hands in her own, Quelaan whispered the ancient vows, and soon enough felt their souls attune to each other; the bond was formed. "Are you feeling better now?"

The Chaos Witch withdrew and paused. "No, but I will be. Can I be sure that you will?"

She smiled. "Of course; go rest, sister. Goodbye, Quelaag..." And as the visitor retreated up the stairwell, Quelaan's face fell and she hugged herself tight. "Do stay safe..."

* * *

Thank you, **Lucifer.M** , for suggesting this tragic boss fight; I hope you appreciate my milking this for _aaall_ the tears it is worth :D

For the third chapter in a row, I've broken my word-length record at a whopping _3,888 words_. I just can't stop! On that note, I noticed while writing this chapter that my focus for the series has been shifting from the fight itself to some exposition prior, and now that seems to have asserted itself as the main theme of each chapter. I'm not complaining though; writing focus always shifts with large projects like this, and this series has always been about painting the rage-sinks of the Souls series in a sympathetic if not tragic light.

Also, now that I've beaten Dark Souls 3 (my own criticisms of it won't be touched on, don't worry), I'm going to start phasing in some of those bosses into the mix. If you haven't faced that boss yet (or otherwise aren't aware of the lore entailed with them), feel free to hold off on reading if you don't want any spoilers; as a general rule, I'm assuming that readers have already learned what things there are to know about each boss, and I don't want to ruin any surprises for new fans or veterans who simply haven't found the right spot to look yet.

Anyway, thanks for checking in, and I hope you enjoyed!


	12. Window 12 - The Abyss Watchers

In the minute leading up to their duel, the two combatants - old and experienced, young and fresh - demonstrated their gaps in combat prowess with how they used their time.

The aspirant, after successfully extinguishing the three fires and unlocking the path to Farron Keep, stumbled into the Dueling Hall with a weary, if not triumphant, expression on his face, and closed his eyes in relief before he was ordered to step forward and have his smile wiped from existence. At the moment, he seemed to be on the verge of panic, keeping it mostly contained within his mind and thus paying no attention to the arena and his opponent.

The latter, Abyss Stalker Sierf, awaited the aspirants' arrival by practicing her forms, and continued to do so after the hall was prepared for their initiation duel. Traditionally it was the Wolf-Knight themself who would test the new arrivals, but the current leader of the Abyss Watchers was preoccupied with receiving a messenger from beyond, and had asked the elite Undead Legionnaire to take his place. Now, rushing through the rest of her training exercises at the behest of the convener, she stared unmoving at the aspirant as he glanced nervously at the crowd of Abyss Watchers, anxious for the trial to begin.

The convener called the onlooking Watchers to silence. "Are the two participants ready and able to proceed?"

A terse 'yes' followed by a general sound of agreement; Sierf was never one for talking when approaching a fight.

Satisfied, the convener raised his hand and lowered his gaze to the cobblestone floor, prompting the lights to be dimmed and stances to be taken. "Then under the gaze of the True Wolf-Knight, and with the blessings of the Wolf-blood, we shall begin." His hand fell, and the fires adorning the walls were extinguished, leaving all but the center of the Hall shrouded in darkness.

The duelists leaped in the same direction - towards the rear of the hall, bringing the aspirant into the light and Sierf into the shadows. Caught unawares by the unexpected tactics employed by the Stalker, the aspirant held up his broadsword and small shield in a stiff defensive stance, attention darting from side to side in an attempt to place the location of his foe.

She revealed her presence with a screech of metal on stone, dragging her greatsword along the ground behind her before bringing it up, stabbing her dagger into the cobblestone floor, and whipping outwards in a feral slash. Pausing to let the initiate closer, the move was repeated on the spot to drive him back and Sierf flipped up and over the initiate, landing and bringing her sword down upon the spot where he had just held his ground.

Backpedaling, the initiate let out a cry - as fearsome as it was filled with fear - and charged, swiping with his broadsword and missing each time. The Abyss Stalker parried a move with her dagger, then riposted in such a way as to deflect the small shield and knock the aspirant backwards; a common tactic to throw off human opponents and goad them into reckless assaults. As the duel progressed further into hectic, lawless brawling, Sierf started to switch between basic and advanced maneuvers with a total lack of predictability as she pushed the Abyss Watcher aspirant to their absolute limit.

Unfortunately for him, it seemed that their limit had been passed as soon as Sierf had closed the gap between them the first time. Exhausted after both the trek through the swamp and the duel with a true Abyss Watcher, the aspirant made a half-hearted forward thrust and almost seemed to let the final blow knock him onto his back. The crowd of legionnaires cheered, moving forward to both congratulate the Sier and help the aspirant to his feet, bringing the former a waterskin and the latter before the convener.

He gestured for silence, then stepped within arm's reach of the initiate, who had slumped to the floor without the strength to stand upright. "That was well-fought, initiate; to last that long against a veteran of the Undead Legion after the Trial of the Wolf Blood is not rare, but still impressive." He paused to allow for a response, but was greeted with silence. "What is your name, you who would join Farron's Undead Legion?"

If the kneeling warrior hadn't lifted his head just a little and taken a deep breath, he could have been mistaken for having falling unconscious. "Vi... Vidar, sir."

The convener leaned back and crossed his arms, amusement evident on his features. "Vidar, hm? Sounds like an Norgarian name; must've made quite the trek to come here." He did not pause in his monologue, even as he turned and gestured for Sier to bring forth a small bowl. "But if you are truly to bring honor to the name of Farron, then you must undertake many more in the coming years."

He stood before Vidar, glancing only momentarily at Sierf holding the bowl at chest height, and then stared with critical appraisal at the would-be Abyss Watcher. "Vidar of Norgaria, do you solemnly swear to uphold the ancient oath of the Wolf-Knight, to hunt down the malevolent Abyss and destroy its presence wherever it may manifest?"

Vidar forced himself into a kneeling position, and - being familiar with a knight's oaths - planted his sword into the ground. "I swear."

"Do you swear to stand with and for your fellow Abyss Watchers, as a wolf stands with and for the rest of his pack?"

Vidar seemed to be shaking a little, but remained upright. "I swear."

"Do you swear to validate the oaths you have taken through supplication to the Old Wolf of Farron, and forgo those you have made to others in the past?"

"I swear!" Vidar spat out, his voice and features strained.

The convener nodded, then waved Sier forward. "Then partake of the Blood of the Wolf, and join your brothers and sisters of the hunt."

Kneeling before Vidar, the Abyss Stalker cupped Vidar's chin and raised the bowl to his mouth, encouraging him to swallow the blood held within and begin the ritual. His features crumpled again, although whether it was in response to the stress he had been subjected to or the pain of the transformation, she could not be certain. No matter; the ritual would progress regardless, and she had one more part to play. "I, Sier, as deliverer of the Wolf-Blood, hereby declare you a Watcher of the Abyss, and grant you the name Faolan." She helped him to his feet, and then allowed a pair of other Stalkers to take him away. "Meet the Old Wolf, and then seek out your pack."

The newly-christened Faolan was led out of the hall, and yet the doors had no chance to close fully before none other than Wolf-Knight Farron herself forced them open again, prompting every Legionnaire remaining in the hall to kneel where they stood.

Wolf-Knight Farron was remarkably imposing - even for a member of the Abyss Watchers - in both form and reputation. As customary for the leader of the Undead Legion, Farron forsook both of her former names to adopt that of their founder, as well as donning a modified set of legionnaire armor reminiscent of the armor worn by their spiritual liege, Artorias the Wolf-Knight. As she stomped from the entrance to the gathering of high-ranking Watchers, passing out orders to have all stationed legionnaires meet at the Hall, her companion Moro paced around, inspecting the present Watchers for tainted blood.

As soon as the last stragglers took their places amongst the Undead Legion, Farron stood stern and grim at the altar opposite the entrance, her chief lieutenants forming a line directly in front of her. She turned her attention to the convener, Abyss Gazer Warick, and flicked her eyes towards the door. "You held a Forest Trial before I arrived?"

Warick bowed low, and nodded. "Yes; a surprisingly vigorous warrior formerly from Norgaria. He lasted a full one and a half minutes against Abyss Stalker Sier."

Nodding, the Wolf-Knight beckoned Moro forward and stroked her fur. "Good, good; he will need to be trained quickly if he is to aid us in the coming days."

Despite it already occurring when Farron had arrived, what few whispers had arisen afterwards feel into silence. Tentatively, Sier stepped forward. "My Wolf-Knight? What troubles you?"

The Wolf-Knight opened her mouth to respond, closed it, and assumed a parade rest stance. "Watchers of the Abyss; today a grave matter has come to my attention from the nearby settlement. A messenger from Drangran has informed me that the Fire is fading." Murmurs arose, only to return to the void with a wave of her hand. "Most importantly, the Lords have spoken with the chief Fire Keepers, and have demanded that we send one of our own to link the First Flame."

Now the silence was not out of respect, but an amalgam of horror, distress, indignation, resignation, and anger. Sensing the damage caused, Farron made a placating gesture. "I fully understand your reaction, as I do not intend of fulfilling that request. However..." she scanned the many faces of the Abyss Watchers, and found many of them tensing in anticipation of her coming order. "We must still decide on who shall go to defend ourselves from the coming Dark; and so we are gathered here, to make that decision."

Before she had finished, a number of pack leaders had pushed through the mass of warriors and knelt before the Wolf-Knight. Speaking in a rush, one of them offered the others no chance to speak first. "Wolf-Knight, my pack will gladly accept this burden and make way to the Kiln."

The others attempted to offer their own swords for the task, but were denied the opportunity when Moro leaned forward and growled long enough for the pack leaders to understand her intent. Sitting back with what must have been a smirk, Moro nuzzled Farron's leg to let her continue. "Thank you, but that will not be necessary. Do you not remember the most important of the initiate's oaths? You would have just heard them, surely."

All three of the tenets with which the Undead Legion marched forth to face the Abyss were equally important, though no one was in a position to question Farron's allusion. "To stand with and for our fellow Abyss Watchers, as a wolf stands with and for his pack."

"Of course; while that evidently stands for a Watcher and those he fights with, so must it extend to the entire order." She walked past her lieutenants and came to a stop in the center of the crowd, gesturing the the legionnaires surrounding her. "We have all partaken of Wolf-Blood, and we have all fought side-by-side at some stage in our service; shall we disregard our oaths in the most important duty we have to uphold? We fight the Abyss to protect the Flame and those who huddle near it for strength." She raised a fist in a rallying gesture. "And so it is, _that we will all walk into the Flames in defiance of the Dark!_ "

* * *

If only the story ended there; if only the Abyss Watchers journeyed fearlessly into the howling Dark as heroes of legend.

As they burned, the minds of the Abyss Watchers faded to nothing; scraps of memories that were swiftly licked up by the starving, withering Flame. They all expected that to be the end, and yet when a bell tolled before they could recall what a sound was - never mind a bell - they found themselves slowly emerging atop a plain of rock and embers.

Those who were consumed quickly by the First Flame sought to regroup with the others, only to find that any who were consumed slowly were slaughtering each other.

Sierf dismissed the memories she held of the period of time immediately following their resurrection, choosing instead to focus on the disaster at hand. After her group had successfully returned to the Dueling Hall - offering their respects to the Old Wolf of Farron, who somehow survived the transition between their Age of Fire and the last - they had been set upon by a mob of feral Abyss Watchers. Throughout the ensuing battle, many of her brothers and sisters were viciously cut down even as they vainly tried to restore the sanity of their broken kin.

She always took her time taking a lesson to heart, however, which was why she was still trying.

"Medeina, _stand down!_ " Alas, she was having as much success as her fallen brethren; the former Abyss Stalker pressed her attack with as much fervor as before, putting the exhausted legionnaire under dangerous levels of pressure. Parry, slash, _pull back_ , evade, slash, stab, parry...

An opening presented itself, and eager for the battle to be over, Sierf immediately stabbed downwards with her dagger and ran her greatsword through her former battle-mate. She stifled a sob as, just as with the hundreds of other Watchers that had died in the last few weeks, Medeina's eyes seemed to widen in comprehension before they fell shut.

"I'm so sorry..." _For betraying everything the Watchers sta-_ _**stood**_ _for._ There were some footsteps from the direction of the distraction that spelled Medeina's doom; slowly turning to face it, the Abyss Stalker took in the image of a man in blood-stained robes accompanied by a glowing-white phantom, both of them coming to a stop the moment her gaze met theirs.

The hall was silent - lit only by a beam of moonlight - until Sierf broke it. "You... you want me to come with you... to the Kiln?"

Amusingly, the Unkindled One stepped backward and _behind_ his compatriot, who shrugged helplessly and tossed a carving onto the ground, unleashing a comically booming 'thank you'.

"If you had approached us-" She drew a deep breath whilst clenching a clammy fist, then continued. "If you had approached _me_ an hour before, I would have heeded you. Now..." She forced herself to look around for emphasis, as she did not trust her voice to maintain its integrity for much longer. Despite such conservative speech, she still cracked a little when she finally resumed. "I can't leave them here."

The phantom nodded, seemingly in understanding, and nudged the Unkindled One forward for the ensuing battle. Sierf offered the customary etiquette of the Undead Legion and muttered a plea for the Wolf-Knight to grant, then ran headlong towards thos who would take her away from her family.

Much to her surprise, they leaped to the sides from her opening slash as if they were familiar with the Abyss Watcher's fighting style, and kept their distance until she started lifting it from the downward arc that had buried it in the cobblestone. Unfortunately for them, they had failed to recognize her apparent moment of weakness, and were caught off guard when the Abyss Stalker lashed out with her dagger to get some distance, then bringing it to the hilt of her greatsword as she lunged forward, running it straight through the Unkindled One.

She would have used the opportunity to finish the meek individual off - really, _this_ is the one they expect to gather the Lords of Cinder? - but was interrupted with a shockingly familiar growl and a lean figure tackling her to the ground. Unconsciously yelping a plea to stop, Sierf kicked the feral Watcher away - decapitating them as they attempted to strike once more - and leaped backwards when the Unkindled One and his phantom ally charged as one.

Taking a quick inventory of her surroundings, Sierf scrambled for the shadows when she caught another pair of Watchers slowly coming upright. Sure enough, the first people their eyes laid on were the ones who would take her away, and they charged at their prey without hesitation. As the duo fought off the ferocious, albeit careless, revived Watchers, Sierf slowly approached from behind and thrust her dagger into the phantom's shoulder, pinning them and keeping them in place for a feral Watcher to finish them.

As their form broke apart, however, the feral Watcher who had aided her collapsed in a heap, a smoking hole in their helmet an indication of what had killed them. Snarling in fury, Sierf turned to face the Unkindled One - who _dared_ to hurt _her brothers and sisters-_

\- and barely had time to react before a soul spear collided with and over-penetrated her chest armor.

Gasping, Sierf struggled but ultimately failed to stop herself from falling to the floor, limbs unresponsive as her thoughts were spirited away into the Abyss. Just as her soul reached the precipice, however, the threads linking it to her fallen kin tugged at her, and her soul - as well as those of every other Abyss Watcher - coalesced within her bosom and lit the Flame within.

A chorus manifested within her mind. **We are here for you, as you are here for us**.

She planted her sword to use it as a support, but was not the reason for her rapidly flowing tears.

 **We will stand for you, as you stand for us**.

Sierf, instead of standing fully erect, crouched low and held her weapons out to her sides in a threatening pose in order to intimidate the Unkindled One.

 **We will die for you, as you will die for us**.

The Abyss Watchers dominated her sense of self at that point, and so she wasn't truly aware of the fight that followed - of the Unkindled One's constant backpedalling to escape the arcs of flame left behind by their sword, the way their dagger tripped up their retreat and left them vulnerable to a flurry of blows, the state of their armor growing further tattered and broken as sorceries punched into and wore down the chainmail and leather protection.

She wasn't aware of the mace that the Unkindled One kept on his person at all times, and how he used it to smash their left kneecap and send them tumbling to the ground. She wasn't aware of the sacrilegious act involving him taking up their greatsword - _their_ greatsword! - and using it to impale them and leave them incapable of preventing their demise.

And as a soul arrow shattered their body and scattered their cinders, Sierf stopped being aware altogether, just as a set of arms enshrouded their form and an enormous wolf nuzzled their corpse.

* * *

S'cuse me... Oh, don't mind me, just passing through as I unceremoniously upload a chapter after a long period of procrastination...

So hey! Long time no read, eh? Honestly, I feel kinda meh about the first half of this chapter; there was so much speculation lifted from such a small amount of canon material that I didn't really feel that great about the dialogue for that scene. Still, I imagine that's kinda how it went when the Watchers decided to go link the Fire together, and so it's gonna stay like that. (Also, have a feel-sy callback to Sif's chapter, why not).

As far as the fic plan goes, I'm gonna have a belated celebration of the game's release (and my beating it) by featuring the other Lords of Cinder one after the other (yes, including Ludleth; don't really know how I'm going to do that yet). Even with my initial misgivings about the quality of my writing here, I feel that I've done the Abyss Watchers some kind of service, and hope that the others are just as fun to write about... except Aldrich. You know what you did, so go to Hell you filthy bastard.

Anywho, if there are any other bosses in the Souls series that you want me to check out, send me a message or leave it in a review so I can get to it after the Lords of Cinder are covered. I've decided to try Bloodborne bosses as well, but given how I don't have a PS4 I can't play through the game myself, so I may not do a great job communicating the feel of fighting those bosses myself.

Whew, that was a long one! Anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!


	13. Window 13 - Yhorm the Giant

The meeting place, befitting of his friend's temperament and beliefs, was all but certainly going to be obnoxiously bright and cheerful, with a disgustingly radiant sun in the sky heating his skin to uncomfortable levels in place of the soothing gray clouds that he had known for years. Still, Yhorm would travel there; it wasn't often that Yhorm was contacted by letter to meet with his stout friend from Catarina, and the timing can't have been a coincidence. A request for an important talk with an old friend, and in the days of the dying Flame?

The Giant Lord shook his head in exasperation as he mulled over the most likely possibility; the people of nearby kingdoms were letting their paranoia and fear of his heritage drive them to making him a sacrifice for the Flame, and insisted on his jovial friend being the messenger. Still, he couldn't bring himself to muster any lasting resentment for Siegward nor those very kingdoms; not after becoming as familiar with the workings of the world as he had.

He emerged from the tunnel leading to the surface and glanced over at the immense cathedral rising above the earth - an artifact of the very first Age of Fire, or so he'd been told - before focusing on cresting the hill Siegward had asked to meet him on. Sure enough, even on such a warm day, the knight of Catarina rested atop the hill, facing the direction of the setting sun and nursing a tiny barrel filled with that odd liquid of his creation.

He must have been ignoring the Giant for dramatic effect - _that melodramatic oaf_ \- as he only turned towards the source of Yhorm's booming footfalls when the Giant lord himself was well in sight of the hilltop. "Yhorm, old friend! Come, have a seat."

Looking helplessly at the patch of grass Siegward had patted - within a human arm's reach of the oblivious friend - he instead opted for setting himself down on the incline, ensuring that he was as close to his friend as he would dare. Finally, he addressed the knight of Catarina, who patiently stared as his friend readied himself. "Siegward."

Despite the offhand, even cold way he had addressed his closest companion, the man in question erupted with deep laughter. "Ah, as witty and flowing with your speech as ever, my friend! How have you..." He trailed off, seemingly lost in thought, before starting and setting down his drink as quickly as possible whilst reaching for his rucksack. "Oh, I'm so sorry, would you like a drink? I probably should've started with that, how rude of me.."

Yhorm opened his mouth to politely reject, but Siegward had already fished out the necessary implements for cooking a new batch of his self-proclaimed "Estus Soup", or 'food' as Yhorm put it; it was difficult to appreciate Human cooking when you had no need for such forms of sustenance. Instead, he sat and let his friend get started with cooking before staring out into the distance. "What do you want, Siegward? You know what the current state of the world implies about this meeting."

It was a testament to his character that Siegward's actions froze for only a moment, and in response to a question that would have other men reeling in shock. "Erm, yes, about that..."

The Giant lord sighed. "Look, I know what you are here for, old friend. You can tell them that I need to put some affairs in order in the Capital before I-"

Now the knight was on his feet, waving his arms in what was only a comical fashion due to the bulk of his armor. "Whoa whoa whoa! Yhorm, I would never ask such a thing of you, nor would I let others seek to remove you from power!" His helmet tilted towards the floor, and he began playing with his fingers. "Although, that _is_ related to what I came here for."

Now Yhorm was curious; if it wasn't to do with honoring their oaths to the Sun - well, one honoring his oaths and having the other half-heartedly acknowledge them - then what could the stout fellow be doing here? Coming all this way to the remnants of Anor Londo; surely...?

"You see, the First Flame is dying- wait, you already knew that, what am I saying? I should've- oh, I'll just start over." Siegward took a deep breath, seemingly trying to puff out his chest to appear more heroic, and locked gazes with his friend. "We are both warriors of heroic deeds, who seek to protect all under the Sun's brilliant care. And with the Fire fading, I..." He was sheepish now, folding his arms behind his back and- was he _kicking up dust?_ "I felt that I should fully honor my duties and do what must be done."

Yhorm shot upwards, eliciting cries from Siegward. "Friend, please mind the soup! It's very difficult to-"

He, however, was impartial about the knight's cooking endeavors, and appeared to be fully incensed after catching onto his rather obvious implications. " _To the Abyss with your soup!_ What are you thinking?! You can't link the Flame, your soul isn't strong enough! You'd burn to a crisp in moments, and all for a shallow sacrifice that wouldn't even appear as useful as a true Linking!"

The knight of Catarina wrenched his helmet off, and whether it was Yhorm's comment about the soup or his dismissal of the importance of linking the Flame, had joined the giant in anger. "It would _not_ be shallow! Friend, I could simply gather the souls I need for the Flame to accept me, and then defeat its warden-"

It was all Yhorm could do to keep from smashing his fist against the hill and risk harming Siegward. "You _can't!_ Even if you had the strength to reach the Kiln, do you honestly think that you could vanquish the _legion that defends it!?_ Your armor would only shield you for so long-"

" _ **And I don't care!**_ " Siegward roared, with so much uncharacteristic fury behind it that the Giant lord actually had to stop and think about whether or not he had actually said that. "Friend, _our entire lives_ have been dedicated to helping those in need, even when the odds were stacked against us! If I were to ignore my calling, and let the Flame wither away..." He slumped, all of his energy spent. "I... I am touched by your concern for me, Yhorm, but... I have to do this. Who else will?"

Looking at Siegward, resigned and broken, the answer was obvious. "I can save more time with the strength I already possess."

It was Siegward's turn to be stunned, staring at Yhorm as if he'd suddenly spouted a mass of tentacles and spoken in tongues. "What? But what about the Capital? What about the-"

"I won't" the Giant lord muttered, and it was all the proof the knight would need to know that his rivals and fearful slanderers would never threaten the people under his rule. "I can set out now and reach the Kiln in a few days, beneath the Capital; when I defeat the Undead Legion who linked it before, I will link the Fire and likely sustain it far longer than any human can with my Giant's soul. You - and your compatriots - will have more time to find a way to end this forever."

They remained silent for some time - Siegward musing over his friend's proposal, Yhorm going over the impossible problem of the other Flame - when fierce bubbling sounds snagged their attention. The Giant was the first to speak. "I think it's ready."

The knight of Catarina nodded, although he seemed to be absent. "Yes, yes, I'll just get it." He fished some wooden bowls out of his rucksack, and nearly placed a spoon in each before leaving one with the serving spoon in the pot. Handing one to Yhorm - who took it gingerly in the palm of his hand - Siegward sat back down and raised his bowl in a toast. "To our valor, our swords, and our sworn duties! Long may the Sun shine!" He drank eagerly from the bowl, but neither of them missed the lack of laughter that usually concluded Siegward's toasts.

When they were both finished, Siegward made to speak, stopped, and then tried again before sagging. "Oh, how do I do this? Yhorm, I..." He clearly needed to speak his mind, so Yhorm let him gather his thoughts. "I am both proud and upset for you, in that you have finally embraced your duties to link the Flame. I have no right to stop you, but... but what happens if you are brought back? You know the legends as well as I, after all."

The Giant nodded in affirmation, recalling how the tolling of the mountain bell would signal the final crisis for the First Flame, and resurrect the past Lords of Cinder to save it. "You want to know ensure that I will not abandon my duties. Very well" he stated, reaching into the space between spaces and drawing forth the brilliant blade that had once threatened his rule, shrinking it to fit a pair of Human hands. "This is yours."

Siegward, caught completely off guard, took the weapon with both hands before shaking his head and raising it again. "Varunastra? No no no, I can't take this! Surely I could talk some sense into you if you ever-"

"Siegward" Yhorm began, pausing to ensure that his friend was listening. "Old friend... your duty would be to ensure I return to link the Flame once more. I grant you permission, as your friend, to do whatever is necessary to ensure that it happens."

He stood up from the hillside seat and stepped forward, before remembering his manners and glancing towards Siegward, who looked more sullen than he had ever seen him before. Beating him to the punch, Siegward looked up tearfully at his lifelong companion. "I'm so sorry, Yhorm, I..."

Yhorm dropped onto one knee and brushed Siegward's arm in comfort."I know." He remained there for a moment, and then returned to his full height. "Thank you for the soup, and... thank you for standing with me until the end."

Their goodbyes spoken and bonds honored, Yhorm returned to the stairway leading to his Capital and prepared himself for the journey ahead.

* * *

For a whole legion of warriors who had linked the Flame before him, Yhorm would have reasoned that they would be much more of a challenge to deal with.

And yet here he was, handily striking down the surviving watchers of the first group with a flurry of slashes and smashes as he advanced through the Kiln of the First Flame and towards the Flame proper. Even with their proportionately enormous weapons and erratic fighting style, they lacked the knowledge of what was required to fell a Greatwood, and so the damage they inflicted was largely superficial.

Without much need to focus on the battle, Yhorm's thoughts drifted to the city above him and near the surface. The Giant lord's advisors had been gathered into a regency council to guide the city in his absence, and due to the widespread awareness of his absence, its military had been placed on high alert whilst diplomats brought gifts to hazardous nearby kingdoms as some form of placation. After such affairs were arranged, the people of the Capital had hosted a mixed celebration and mourning for Yhorm's coming sacrifice, and his knights assisted him in preparing for the journey itself.

He only hoped that they would be able to host another celebration soon.

With the last legionnaire dead, Yhorm rested his machete against his shoulder as he pressed on, taking note of the warped architecture and ashen dunes in between scanning for any further hostiles and inspecting his equipment. Entering a darker region of the underground cavern where the Kiln was located, Yhorm fished out a massive torch - specifically created from a huge tree, cut down and smoothed to fit his grip - to illuminate his surroundings, and quickly re-established the path he needed to take.

Such was his entire life - stumbling through an uncaring world, suffering or making other suffer for an end that no sane man would desire - and as a result Yhorm brushed aside the nagging worries that coiled around his mind and whispered black-dripping words; they would not help him here.

At long last, after at least a day of fighting and wandering through the deep depths of the world, the Giant lord spied a warm, red-orange glow in the distance, the illuminated wall of the cavern partially blocked by half-melted archways and a diminutive, coiled sword. Trudging through the ashen wastes - which truly was deep, as it came halfway up his thighs - Yhorm pulled away some of the ruins to better reach the tiny flame dancing in the Dark, and stopped at its side.

Setting down his machete, Yhorm took a moment to contemplate the possible repercussions of his course. Many legends propounded the notion that ascendant Lords of Cinder were freed from the cycle for their sacrifice, joining the first Lords in an idyllic copy of the living world to feast and laugh and live forever; others claimed they became one with the First Flame, becoming aware of all things in time forever, seeing what lied behind and ahead of their rule.

Yhorm himself did not believe in any of those fool's tales, and yet as he edged his hand closer to the embedded sword, found himself hesitating and granting those stories a new kind of consideration. After all the things he had done - all the things he had _let_ be done - what would await him beyond the guiding light of the Flame? _Would_ anything await beyond the Flame? What if such tales of fitting reward were mere lies to draw in noble heirs, and after linking the Fire the Giant would simply cease to be; or worse, be condemned to the Abyss now that his soul had been offered as kindling?

He never stopped wondering if linking the Flame would be a wise idea, even as he felt his Giant's soul attune to the Flame.

The flames timidly advanced up his outstretched arm - as if the Flame itself was unsure of whether to proceed - and Yhorm's soul responded in kind, slowly reaching out and entwining itself with the warm coils of life and death. It felt unusual; was this what all Lords of Cinder felt before the agony left them mindless husks? The Giant felt an inexplicable urge to pull back, even as he rationalized that it was too late; his course was charted and the vessel carrying him had left dock.

Only something came off as unnatural about how the fire burned within his bosom; Yhorm became aware of his arrival moments before, his standing at the Flame now, and his crouching form in a few moments. Wonder soon joined the sense of unease, leaving him in a state of pure equilibrium... until the unease exploded into panic, his perception of time stretching onward and onward until...

Yhorm found himself turning towards the Capital as the Profaned Flame erupted in newfound life, and only then realized that the feelings of wrongness had nothing to do with his awareness of reality.

He saw the Flame shuddering as unfamiliar energies wracked its form, and citizens of the Capital fleeing from some terrifying force that disintegrated the people's bodies, minds, and souls. The snaking, _moaning_ First Flame soon lashed out, and with an ungodly tear that sent Yhorm staggering, expelled an angry red ember which spun erratically and shot out of the cavern, drawn to the nearest signs of life, and...

" _NO!_ _ **RUN, PLEASE!**_ " But his people could not hear him, and so they donned innocent metal masks and wielded both daggers and branding irons with callous amusement, descending to new levels of depravity involving the torment of reanimated, charred humans who had served him; perhaps they sought to escape the horrors of the wounded- nay, the profaned flame and the horrific stone constructs it spat out.

With a lurch, his visions ended, and Yhorm found himself laying face-up in what felt like a stone coffin. What had...? _The Capital_. Galvanized by terror, the Giant lord forced the covering slab spinning into the air, slamming his machete's blade into the earth as support to help him get up faster-

-for a vista of his unfamiliar whereabouts. Craning his head forward to face the horizon, he beheld a great stone bell tower, still tolling and causing more coffins to burst open. Turning to the left, he beheld a razed city, with crumbling ruins and hollow silence. To the right, he became aware of other Lords of Cinder emerging into the ashen sunlight; even the undead legion he had felled when he first approached the Flame.

And with that thought, he finally came to terms with what had happened - how the people who trusted him were killed by an unholy fusion of the Flame's power and his people's ancestral hate.

And when the revived Lords of Cinder turned to behold the source of a Giant's emotion-laced roar, it seemed to bear none of their characteristic anger.

* * *

Yhorm truly came to appreciate the calming influence of silence.

Whenever it deigned to grace him with its presence - which was a truly rare occasion indeed, as the Handmaidens always found something new to chuckle and slice at - the reclusive lord found that all of his regrets and blade-grip swords of self-loathing were cast away, replaced with serenity and phantasms of the people who once called him their ruler. Smiling, eating and nodding, they listened as he apologized for atrocities no one could foresee, and certainly did not blame him for what he meant as a final gift to those who trusted him dearly.

They were certainly more welcome company than the true remnants of his people, who lined the walls of his throne room and screamed silent when they weren't simply unmoving, caught in tangled messes of death.

However, despite the disgust and shame that permeated the room and infected his mind, Yhorm would not leave; it was a fitting punishment for his crime, whether he had intended for disaster or not, and it was the only act of defiance he could take against the ungrateful dogs who tolled the bell of Firelink Shrine and implored for him to do his duty once more. His duty! He had let another convince him to do his duty once, and look at what that had amounted to!

He would remain there, on his gilded throne in the Profaned Capital, waiting for the end of time to silence the impertinent nagging for another sacrifice, and the multitude of shrieking people of many walks and places of life who appeared whenever he seriously considered atoning for his sins once more.

His mind was wandering again; how many times had that happened in the last few days, compared to the week before? Perhaps he was losing his mind the same way those of the Profaned Capital gibbered and chortled and sizzled the flesh of their victims. Sometimes he considered joining them in their heinous debauchery, in an escape from the dreary, woeful tides of fate and life that broke him down to his base instincts of despair and rage. Alas, he could not; firstly, partaking in their madness may cost him his self-awareness - for he did not understand the nature of their ailing minds - and that would deny him his revenge against the begging curs who shallowly praised him in the hopes of turning him into a sacrificial lion once more.

The other, and far more pressing concern, was that it had been some time since the silence had arrived - and it had yet to leave.

Resolving to seek out the meaning of this aberration in his existence himself, Yhorm glanced up at the great fire-pit beyond his throne room - where a few Handmaidens would stand around and utter nonsensical platitudes to the long-calmed profanity seated within - and immediately halted his advance.

The Handmaidens lay dead in various places around the Profaned Flame, and in the throne room itself were two individuals.

The first appeared at first to wear simple cloth and a leather hat, though upon closer inspection the robes which masked their form also masked the scorched plate armor above it. The cloth framed their young, plump face, _chuckling with sinister mirth as they waved branding irons_ , revealing their trepidation as they held their twin daggers tight to their body and glanced at their companion.

The second walked calmly forward, never breaking eye-contact with the reclusive lord, and raised an ornate sword with unusual hilt design. "Yhorm... old friend."

Yhorm's eyes narrowed, and his grip reflexively tightened on the grip of his great machete, Anguvardal.

With the lack of a verbal response, Siegward seemed to falter for a moment - as if still struggling to come to terms with what had to be done - and continued. "I, Siegward of the knights of Catarina, have come to uphold my promise!" The Unkindled One faltered and even took a step backward when Yhorm lifted himself from his throne, even as Siegward marched forward without pause. " _Let the Sun shine upon this Lord of Cinder,_ _ **and long may It shine!**_ "

His oaths given voice, Siegward roared and charged forward, even as Yhorm moved away from his throne and brought Anguvardal up above him, leaving it hanging in the air before bringing it down with the force of a small building, sending the knight of Catarina flying and obliterating the tiling caught in the impact. Rolling back onto his feet and assuming an on-guard stance, Yhorm pressed the attack and swung wildly; just above the din of the chaos, the reclusive lord could have sworn he heard a tumultuous howling, as if-

-as if the very sky itself was becoming feral.

Too late to move away, Yhorm whipped around to face the opposite direction and braced himself for the oncoming blow, as the Unkindled brought his other weapon, Fragarach, downwards in a slamming attack. The wind summoned by the blade answered to its command, and cut into Yhorm's flesh with such force that even with his foresight, he stumbled backwards and careened into the wall of his throne room; it had been too long since the days he established his benevolent nature, and had forgotten what it meant to be struck by the Storm Rulers.

Forcing himself to his feet, he struck out at a column to his left, using the smokescreen formed from the sudden down-pour of ash and dust to charge forward and grab the Unkindled One, smashing them against the ground and readying a _coup de grâce_. However, even if they had failed to reach for their golden flask in time and drained it of its contents, another blow - this time from Varunastra - crashed into his rear and flung him forwards, smashing head first into his throne and disorienting him. _This has gone on_ _ **long enough**_. Refusing to let them drag him to his second sacrifice - and perhaps to give them a reason to expedite their current task - Yhorm called upon the power he despised and burst into flame, tongues lashing out from fresh cracks in his skin and wreathing Anguvardal's length.

Roaring a fresh challenge, Yhorm barreled forward and demolished what remained of the throne room, tearing columns from their supports and lobbing what didn't crumble away immediately at his assailants, sundering the floor and making it increasingly less viable ground to engage them on. Despite the complete terror such an image would have infused in men _without_ the flames, Siegward and the Unkindled simply evaded his assault and - as he turned to face them once more - called upon the storm once more.

The wind tore into his armor, his flesh, and his very soul; with no strength left to stand, Yhorm collapsed to his knees, Anguvardal dropped and forgotten at his side. The two Undead approached him, the Unkindled wincing with sympathy at Yhorm's moaning and struggling to use his now-crippled dominant arm, whilst Siegward took a sip from his own flask and left the Unkindled to her own devices in order to speak with Yhorm in what privacy they could find.

Siegward removed his helmet and held it at his hip whilst supporting Varunastra on his shoulder. "Old friend, I know you still exist in that head of yours" he began, his mouth falling into a flatter, grim line when the reclusive lord in question proved the knight's theory and locked gazes with him. "And so I hope to appeal to your sense of duty-"

Yhorm's growl quickly silenced that particular train of thought, and Siegward collected himself. "Friend... the Flame is dying again, and-"

"Then let it die" Yhorm muttered, his voice akin to stone grinding together after centuries of disuse. "All it did was spur the Profaned Flame on so it wouldn't jeopardize other lands before burning out. I have no reason to help anyone now."

For the first time in a long time - both literally and figuratively - the reclusive lord witnessed Siegward being left speechless by his response, and opened his mouth repeatedly to retort before closing it again. Finally, his wits seemed to return to him, and he pressed on as if he hadn't suffered a major setback; a major element of his character that had prevented Yhorm from driving him away and remaining alone. "Yhorm... would you rather live with your failures, or die for something meaningful?"

The giant scoffed. "What could possibly be more meaningful than the short-term cop-out of Linking the Flame?"

"Saving it from its final death."

Every thought in Yhorm's mind stopped at once. It was... Wasn't being sustained by the souls of great lords? But that meant... they weren't enough any more. To keep it alive, it required an increasingly larger amount of souls per Linking, which meant that they must have reached the point where they needed more souls than it could take in at once.

It was starving, and there was absolutely nothing anyone could do; except, perhaps, recycle the souls of the most powerful Lords of Cinder.

A lengthy battle took place in Yhorm's minds; spite all who had wronged him and let the Fire fade, or do what he intrinsically believed was right and save it. He turned to the piles of corpses that had once trusted him, and found them all pointing straight at Siegward, who looked around in confusion; the course was clear.

"Siegward... thank you, for..."

The knight of Catarina put a hand to his friend's lips, and in spite of their situation smiled. "There is nothing to thank or apologize to me for, Yhorm. Do you need us to wait with you as you heal?"

The Giant lord shook his head. "No, not enough... time. I won't make you." And with what little strength remained in his opposite arm, he wrested Varunastra from Siegward's grip - with delicate care, as always - and shoved it upwards into his mouth and through his brain.

* * *

So remember how I said Quelaag's chapter approached 4,000 words? Yeah, well Yhorm's chapter surpassed that. By another 500 words. 4,564 word total, to be exact.

The fun part about writing this - asides from the fact that his fight and theme are cool as hell - is that about halfway through I read the description for Yhorm's soul and kind of got reminded that the Profaned Flame existed _before_ Yhorm linked the First Flame. After the awkward head-wrapping-around ensued, I tried to figure out how to restructure the chapter to fit in that lore, only to decide on a few vague references; I _really_ didn't want to do it again, and I don't think I could have, since I felt a little fatigued trying to power through the end of this chapter.

But in any case, here we are! Halfway through the Lords of Cinder, and then I'll get back to random choices + requests from readers. Also, if any of you think there's something off about my writing, notice that I forgot some reference or character trait there, or just want to ask a question, feel free to review or send me a message directly, and I'll get to it.

Finally, before I take off, I realise that some bosses that I've previously written for may require a rewrite after some lore was messed with post-Dark Souls 3 (including a god or two). With that in mind, would you guys object to my going back and editing previous chapters as I deem it necessary? I've thought of it before, but reckoned I should put the idea before you guys before rushing into stupid decisions.

Anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed the latest edition in this series!


	14. Window 14 - Aldrich, Devourer Saint

He loved to look up into the night sky, especially on rather drab days as this. The pinpricks of white - in their infinitely complex arrangements and contrasting colors of surrounding patches of the cosmos - were among the most stunning sights in the world, even compared to the magnificent incandescence of the Sun and inviting warmth of Fire. It brought great power to those who sought it through the mystical, if superstitious, practice of astrology, and - most importantly - lacked the corruptive and evil influence of the dreaded darkness of the Abyss.

But when Aldrich looked up at the night sky, he instead found himself drawn to the deep blue hues of the ocean at its edge.

Yes, the profile of existence was a wonder to behold, and it certainly proved useful when one needed answers to material problems, but they never sustained his drive to fulfill his mission like the black depths of the cosmos did. When he gazed up at the night sky, he once more witnessed the deep sea that awaited all beneath the earth, beneath the flighting fancies of the Fire and hostile terrors of the Abyss. In response, the Saint of the Deep would offer some prayers in thanks to the night sky, in reverence of both its gracious warnings...

...and the glorious power that drifted upwards from the dregs below.

The doors to his chamber opened, accompanied by the scents of incense and droning of holy clerics, and Aldrich turned his gaze down from the heavens to face them. Having long since lost the ability to move around, the Cathedral's good clergy simply brought offerings directly before his enormous girth - which were bound and flanked by his deacons, now that his attention had shifted - to ensure that he would be ready for the coming of the deep sea.

Finally, after ritualistically having the prisoners prostrate themselves before him in formation - as well as walking around the room waving their incense whilst making blessings to Aldrich and the personal knights who protected him - the deacons knelt before his prodigious form. A hunched-over, wrinkled figure in thick robes stepped forward, and Archdeacon Royce genuflected in front of Aldrich whilst spreading his arms wide. "Oh great Saint of the Deep, we of your most loyal followers..." The archdeacon trailed off, and Aldrich quelled the growing hunger within to let him finish. "...bring you this offering, in the hopes of granting you strength and ourselves your blessings."

Nodding in approval, the Saint of the Deep spoke at last. "Thank you for your servitude, Archdeacon." Holding out a ridiculously meaty arm to his side, he gestured to one of the knights waiting by the walls of the chamber. "Bring forth the rings."

The knight, accompanied by a pair of priests waving candle-topped staffs, slowly made their way through the rows of deacons prostrating before Aldrich, handing out rings with both steel-blue and tangerine-orange gems inlaid within the crusty bands. The articles of jewelery - all following the painstakingly-crafted originals forged by the Saint himself - attuned themselves to both the souls of their wearer and that of Aldrich as soon as they were fitted neatly onto fingers; his ever-vigilant priesthood would receive the fitting reward for their service.

A whimper amidst the gathering of offerings instantly ensnared the Saint's attention; silence reigned, and Aldrich could withhold himself no longer.

Muttering under his heavy breath, hosts of insects surged from his sausage-like fingers and enshrouded the distressed sacrifice - an astrologist, given that he reached for the heavens just before he was caught - who promptly shrieked and collapsed, the horde stripping the edible parts from his skeleton and funneling them into Aldrich's gaping mouth. Sometimes he longed for the days when he could engage in such wonderful activities - create tapestries of discordant sound and mounds of bone - without the need of others, but then he would remind himself that it showed what newfound power he possessed.

Besides, the clergy accepted the wonders of death through his rings, he ate and grew, and his insects feasted; everyone stood to benefit from this arrangement.

As he ate - completely unaware of his surroundings in his frenzied gluttony - the deacons began the customary exodus chanting during his feasting, and even the knights edged themselves closer to the door leading out to the Cathedral. Meanwhile, Aldrich's flesh surged forward, changing from taut and pinkish to soft and brown, even as his features warped and melted. With a garbled cry of ecstasy, the Saint of the Deep's human form erupted, spilling throughout the room and swallowing the terrified remainder of the sacrifices whole, even whilst Royce directed the ring-bearer towards the nearby lever, sealing the chamber to prevent the Saint from harming his most loyal followers.

Aldrich, having gotten over the shock of his transformation, remained at rest for a few moments to collect his thoughts. Tentatively, he tried to move his unfeeling limbs from the muck that was now his physical form, and was rewarded with no response whatsoever. Pushing harder, nothing changed, and the Saint of the Deep came to a rest, breathing heavily from...

...breathing heavily from what? Aldrich's awareness shifted to the corner of the room, where a cluster of holes inhaled and exhaled to the rhythm of his breathing; or rather, what he perceived to be his breathing. Curiosity peaked, the Saint of the Deep willed for a new body - one that could transport his new, viscous mind through the tides of whatever fate was in store for him - and so one appeared, the sludge gathering itself into a snake-like tube, bloated and lined with what seemed like teeth. Were they always there? Perhaps they were made from the bones of his victims, blessed by the fetid touch of the Deep...

Satisfied, yet exhausted, Aldrich opened his new mouth - lined with razor-teeth and flaps of rotten cartilage - before coiling around himself and falling to sleep. In that sleep he dreamed; he dreamed of the Deep and its advent, those who would be washed away by its tides, and those who served him remaining faithful as their deaths lapped at their feet. He dreamed of his bountiful mass erupting from under the surface, luxuriating in the power and sight of the Deep in the sky, and striking down the heretics and traitors who dared to defy him.

And then his fantasies were abruptly interrupted, when the doors to his chamber opened at a stumbling knight's command, reaching out with a holy gesture as he waded through Aldrich's form before collapsing, unmoving.

Struggling to wrap his head around the development - his thought processes seemed to have slowed post-transformation - Aldrich was thrown off guard when fire scorched the sludge at his chamber's doors, driving him back with a whine of pain. As he retreated, a troop of soldiers and knights emerged; bearing the wretched holy symbols of the Dark Sun, they could only be here for one reason.

Their leader, stepping forward resplendent in the engraved brass armor of a high-ranking lieutenant, unrolled a scroll and began to read through its contents whilst his compatriots kept the Saint of the Deep at bay. "Aldrich, Saint and leader of the Cathedral of the Deep: By order of High King Pancratius, Lord of the Sunless Realms and Heir of Fire, and with the blessings of the Dark Sun, the Blades of the Darkmoon have been charged with destroying your followers and bringing you to the Kiln of the First Flame, where you shall link the Fire and atone for your evil-"

Desperation lent its power and control to Aldrich, and so he burst outward in an attempt to engulf the heathens. Rapidly flooding the room, he snatched at the acolytes of the moon in the hopes of devouring their power, only for their able compatriots to strike at his newly formed limbs with spears of purple light. The holy agony of fire and darkmoon light were united - with even his Deep protection failing to fully ward off the onslaught of magical energy - and so Aldrich recoiled and howled as the warriors pressed him further and further into a corner.

Burning away his body, the Darkmoon blades approached with chimes readying binding spells, with the Saint of the Deep huddling close and fearing for the first in a long time. Now completely panicking, his mouth blurted miracle after miracle, striking at his would-be captors with both mucous tentacles of bone and perverted miracles, completely unaware that half of his attacks were impacting with the walls and roof of his chamber on wild tangents.

And for every attack Aldrich successfully unleashed upon his assailants, the Blades of the Darkmoon either deflected or evaded them whilst exchanging their own magics with him. Eventually, burnt and broken, what little remained of Aldrich slumped in a corner, quivering and struggling to crawl away even as the disciples of the Dark Sun approached with binding miracles and biting blades.

* * *

It had been far too long since he had allowed himself to look upon the Deep and dark night sky; with so many affairs to attend to after his resurrection, Aldrich had little time to do anything asides from executing his grand scheme.

Much had changed in the thousands of years he had been interred: his once striking, bountiful form had been charred and even melted by the ferocious linking of the Flame, leaving his body perpetually burning like paper. A young, ambitious sorcerer found a new purpose with the Deep, and had protected his Saint even as the clergy's numbers had swollen to new depths.

Perhaps most significantly, the aforementioned sorcerer had wrested control of what was once Anor Londo from the two remaining children of Gwyn, and with the Cathedral behind him stood ready to storm the central keep and end their repulsive existences.

The Saint of the Deep, regretting his ignorance of the display above him, piously moved through the masses of deacons, knights, and creatures of the Deep - all whom had been gathered to serve him and his divine purpose - offering rings and words of faith to rally them and prepare them for the final battle. All the while, the poet formed from consuming this age's greatest literary minds was all but giggling uncontrollably at the symbolism of this situation; the great dregs formed from the loving, smothering touch of the Deep, rising up into the sky to destroy the hideously malformed bastard children of the gods and initiate the Advent of the Deep Sea! Truly, this would be spoken of as one of the great epics taught by the evangelists in the ages to come.

Having finished his noble task - and realizing just how ravenous said duty had left him - Aldrich snaked through the holy warriors of the Deep and approached the ever-loyal Sulyvahn, who prostrated himself alongside the highest ranking clergymen who had accompanied the Saint of the Deep.

The Pontiff slowly raised his head to speak, and when neither objections nor reprimands were spoken, he did so. "Oh good Saint of the Deep, it is with great humility that we of your Faithful stand here to serve-"

Aldrich waved his hand, chuckling with mirth. "Sulyvahn, Augustine, Bernadette, please! Stretch your backs and ease yourselves. Today is a day of glorious purpose and joy, not rigid observations of pleasantries and servitude!"

Sulyvahn stiffened with what seemed remarkably like indignation - clearly his ego was engorging itself a bit too much - before rising from his position with outstretched hands. "As you wish, my Lord." With both deacons at his side, he gestured with a nod to the crusaders gathered before Anor Londo, whom stretched from the top of the great stairs to the bottom of the corkscrew elevator that had lifted them to these heights. "Your righteous zealots of the Deep are ready for your command... Aldrich."

Nodding in approval, Aldrich set himself directly in front of his faithful legion - shoving away the crumpled remains of one of the Cathedral's noble defenders, who had gone far too cold to be any good - and observed them, paying special attention to the faces that donned expressions of awe, fear, or both.

Aldrich willed himself to his full height - a mere party trick compared to what he was capable of now - and finally addressed the crowd before him. "My Faithful! Devout servants and masters of the Deep!" He paused, letting the ever-expanding silence wash away any doubts held by his followers in preparation for the coming bloodshed. "For ages we did bide our time, gathering strength and numbers for our ordained task. For ages we did enlighten fellow men to the coming of the Deep, and how those faithful would receive power and prestige for aiding its coming! And now" he shouted, letting the dramatic passion of his speech grant another kind of power to his form, "behold how our faith has been rewarded!"

They cheered, even if they did not see what he did; the deaths of the last of that filthy Gwyn's line, and the symbolic final death of Fire. Rising in both voice and presence to be heard above the din, the Saint of the Deep continued to spur on his warriors, who seemed as if they were holding their noble blood-lust within. "So today, think not of the pitiful weaklings and esteemed terrors of the Deep, nor your own fates at their hands. Today, _will_ _yourselves into great fervor, and_ _ **extinguish**_ _the last flame withholding our dominion!_ "

He spun on the spot, preparing a uniquely destructive Deep miracle whilst Sulyvahn and his personal retinue readied their weapons. " _ **Today, exalt the Deep!**_ "

The sickly glowing light in his hand erupted forth, making a beeline for the monolithic doors sealing the keep from the remains of Anor Londo and demolishing it, ripping the panels from their hinges and sending them careening into the mass of Silver Knights on the other side. Those who were not crushed or struck by them immediately entered stance, marching to meet the horde of the Deep whilst archers on the upper ramparts let greatarrows fly and hit their marks - seeking to put down Cathedral Knights whom broke guards and caved in helms, Deep Accursed which snickered and stomped both friend and foe flat, Irithyllian dancers that spun and slashed...

...and Aldrich, who shot through and engulfed several knights at once and devoured them in moments.

As they were agonizingly digested - their former selves being assimilated and interrogated by Aldrich - he scanned the raging battle around him, noting the tenuous strain on both sides. Whilst they fought with the Deep and righteous purpose by their side, his crusading knights were often overwhelmed by the sentinels of Anor Londo even when in pairs, and his deacons would release at least one fireball before being decapitated by a silver blade or pinned to a surface by a greatarrow.

And yet when he compared their success with those who fought for the scourge of humanity, the Silver Knights encountered their own dangers; namely, the Irithyllian knights - whom danced and weaved through each and every strike to return their own - the spider-dogs that felled entire squads of knights on their own, and the Saint of the Deep himself. Ignoring the several attempts to wound his flesh, Aldrich concluded that each side had the potential to turn the tide and destroy their foes utterly; all he had to do was ensure that it was his side.

Deciding that the archers posed the greatest threat to his forces, Aldrich latched onto and scaled one of the walls leading to the balcony from which Anor Londo's archers had assumed their positions. Silently gripping the very precipice underneath the railing, he waited until they had loosed their next salvo before hoisting his serpentine bulk over and onto their position, rapidly engulfing and impaling the retreating knights.

Edging from one side of the retreat to the other and seeing no further reinforcements, Aldrich contented himself with letting his meal nourish him as the Cathedral's might broke upon and slowly but surely eroded the defenses of the last child of Gwyn. Without their artillery support - and having already taken extensive losses putting down the Deep Accursed - the Silver Knights were backed closer and closer to the wooden curtain wall separating the entrance and main halls of the grand cathedral, with the more noble members valiantly giving their lives to stem the tide and offer their compatriots a retreat.

The flood of disciples pressed towards the portal the knights had vanished into, and would have followed them through if it hadn't exploded.

Prodigiously large in a way unlike the Saint of the Deep, the titanic Executioner Smough towered over the Cathedral's zealots, snarling with contempt at the masses of deacons who cowered behind their similarly dwarfed armored companions. Hefting his great, lightning-wreathed hammer - Proditor - the last Knight of Gwyn stomped forward and swiped to his side, sending several knights and deacons splattering against a wall.

Deciding that his faithful had fulfilled their duties to him, Aldrich chose then to cast himself back down to the ground floor, landing between his rapidly fleeing forces and the legendary guardian of Princess Gwynevere. Rising up, his mouth shifted into some perverse imitation of a smirk as he formed long, spiked tentacles and scanned the executioner's stance. "Hmm... still think you can cast your sins away through servitude, cannibal?"

The demigod in question hissed with indignation, trying and failing to brush off the insult. "That does not matter in the slightest! I am Smough, last knight and defender of Anor Londo, and _you will not threaten my lord as long as I breathe!_ "

Warrior pleasantries exchanged, Smough brought Proditor to the ground, then charged at the Saint of the Deep. Recognizing the ploy from the memories of those he had devoured, Aldrich dodged to the side as quickly as he could manage to avoid his foe ripping the hammerhead from the ground, flinging hundreds of shards of stone in a lacerating attack. Attempting to exploit the opening, Aldrich slashed at Smough, although without any effect against the giant's handiwork, before being pummeled and ripped away from some of his great mass.

He struggled to orient himself against the agonizing convulsions caused by Proditor's lightning, and was snapped out of it as the executioner kicked him through a column. Taking note of the durability of Smough's armor, he shifted one of his tentacles into an approximation of a hand and lobbed several Deep miracles at the executioner, successfully leaving several dents in the brilliant golden armor. Surprisingly, Smough maintained his focus in response to what he would have considered a slight in the past, instead initiating a series of swings and smashes that Aldrich needed to continuously back away from to escape the brunt of the assault.

Eventually, however, the great executioner made the fatal mistake of jumping and bringing Proditor down upon Aldrich's midsection. Growling with satisfaction, Aldrich wrapped his form around the hammer's entirety in order to ensnare it; his foe temporarily exhausted, there was nothing he could do to prevent Aldrich from wrenching him uncontrollably forwards, resulting in his falling face-first into a newly formed, yawning mouth.

Before the Saint of the Deep could swallow his prey, however, Smough's lightning-clad fist punched a hole clean through from the inside, using the hold he created to lift the bloated snake into the air. Carefully edging his body out of Aldrich's mouth - gagging as a result of the smell, which could be clearly seen due to the disappearance of his helmet - the executioner continued his maneuver by bringing Aldrich down on his knee with enough force to rip him in half, then threw him towards the keep's front gates.

Aldrich slowly pried himself from the floor as Smough approached, hefting Proditor and smirking down at the usurper. "Even if they were still here, I doubt the other gods would mind if I seasoned my soup with your ground up bones." He grimaced. "Not that I would, when they're covered in slime."

The Saint of the Deep struggled to get up, lightning still crackling across and sizzling his rotten flesh, and yet offered a scoff of disgruntlement. "Why bother with that? After all..."

Whatever he intended to say was never given voice once he began coughing violently, collapsing to the floor once more and merciless before the strength of Anor Londo's one remaining knight. Sensing victory, Smough chuckled with relief and amusement as he pinned Aldrich in place with his foot and raised Proditor for a _coup de grâce; feeling generous, he paused. "Would you like to finish what you were saying, wretch?"_

 _Aldrich looked up, locked gazes with his executioner, and flashed his teeth like a predator would at an animal it was about to consume. Finished with his feign, he swallowed Smough's leg - throwing the gilded warrior off-balance - and ensnared him in newly grown tentacles, raising himself from the floor to meet Smough's eyes. "I prefer my food raw and warm."_

Opening wide, Aldrich lurched forward and swallowed Smough once more, making sure to keep his meal bound so as to prevent another escape. And as the battle closed, two roars could have been discerned by the surviving warriors of each side - one of muffled defiance, and one of final, long-sought triumph - for Anor Londo had fallen at last.

* * *

Having dispatched a small detachment of knights and deacons to track down the incompetent Dark Sun - Honestly, what sort of a god allows their city to rot and crumble into this sad husk? - Aldrich immediately claimed the spacious main hall of the keep as his private chambers; having spent much time investigating them, he was greatly disappointed. As the rumors suggested, the image of Gwynevere within the princess' chambers was just that - an image, as he learned when he launched himself at her form and was rewarded with decrepit felt fabric in his face. The overhead railing was impractical for one of his size, but could be a resting place alongside the abandoned chamber for servants who attended to him, and of course there were the various enormous views offering vistas of the sky and surrounding landscape.

Affording a quick glance outside into the deep dark of the sky, he concluded that the views of the sky were the only things the gods correctly designed in this mess of architecture.

Having grown immensely bored, the Saint of the Deep ordered for some Unkindled ash to be brought before him so they could entertain him for a little while; they were bland and left an awful, dusty aftertaste, but he had to fill his time with something. Hours more passed wherein he experimented with the Deep - parsing its secrets and creatures to concoct new miracles - before finally the refurbished paneled doors into the hall creaked open.

Escorted by two columns of knights and clergymen on each side, Dark Sun Gwyndolin slithered into the chamber, coming to a stop and curling his nose as he became aware of the Saint's infamous scent. Noticing his pause, the knights immediately to his sides grabbed his arms and pulled him before Aldrich, whilst the rest of their entourage assumed formation and parade rest, save for their corporal - bedecked in embellished armor and wrapped with deep blue robes - who knelt directly before Aldrich.

Removing their helmet, the lieutenant revealed themselves as another undead member of the cathedral, save for a few indicators that they were one of the renowned warrior-aids of Bernadette. "We have found the quarry, your grace - she was hidden within the old tomb of Gwyn, protected by the few knights who escaped from our assault."

If Aldrich caught the way Gwyndolin stiffened after being referred to as "she", he did not comment on it; instead, he nodded in approval and waved to the door. "Thank you. You shall be handsomely rewarded later; for now, I must speak with our most esteemed guest."

"Your will be done, my lord." Donning her helmet once more, the lieutenant lead her squad of knights out of the hall, the deacons muttering prayers as they followed and closed the doors.

Finally alone with the Dark Sun, the Saint of the Deep drifted around him, eying him as a child would eye a sweet. "So, you are the illustrious Dark Sun of Anor Londo, hmm...?" Coming to a stop directly in front of him - and noting with amusement the way Gwyndolin's snakes bit at him when he passed - Aldrich leaned forward until their faces almost touched. "What was a pretty princess like you thinking you could prevent the dregs you call man from claiming their rightful place?"

Sneering, Gwyndolin batted Aldrich away with his ritual wand - with delicate strength unbecoming of a deity - then flicked away the matter sticking to it with thinly veiled disgust. "Those false rumours about mineself still persist? I am no more a mistress than thee art a human, and thee would doth well to recall that."

Chuckling, Aldrich raised a limb to his head and leaned to the side as if he were swooning. "Oh, to think I have offended the Dark Sun of Anor Londo! I only hope that she can forgive my transgression-"

Gwyndolin started forward, ready to scream reprimands at his harasser, before recognizing his intent in the way the Saint of the Deep stopped to note his reaction. Clenching his fist tightly and snakes hissing with malice, Gwyndolin soothed himself with his memories and his mandate, then held himself in an aloof stance. "I wilt not allow myself to beest moved by thy jabs any longer, Dark-spawn. Now speaketh, for thou has't clearly allow'd me liveth for a purpose."

The Saint of the Deep bowed with as much sarcasm as he could, attempting not to smile as he provoked the Dark Sun's ire once more. "Oh, thank you for your benevolent mercy, o Dark Sun! And indeed, your usefulness has not yet exceeded your life. However" he looked up, a polite smile appearing quite out of place with the murderous glint in his eyes. "Do remember who is in control here the next time you feel like ordering someone about; you may just find yourself out of your depth..."

Turning away, he brought himself before one of the immense stained-glass windows lining the hall's interior and gazed out into the night sky. "Tell me, Dark Sun; have you ever looked up into the eternity of the universe?" When no response graced him with its presence, he took that as a cue to continue. "You should; it being the residence of your precious Darkmoon, I would have thought you would be more fond of stealing glances at its majesty. I look to it for my driving motivation... for the gaps between stars, into the depths where even the Dark dare not approach..."

"And? Wherefore is that supposed to pique mine interest?" A note of trepidation; he must have recognized the beast's snarls for what they meant. "The Dark is the only thing I has't known of that required repressing, so if 't be true thee refer to this Deep thee so ravenously covet I doubt tis truly worth mine concern."

"Oh, I just would have thought you would want to pray to the moon at this moment; after all..." He shifted on the spot, then loomed threateningly over the Dark Sun, his passing approximation of a face split open with malice. "Your city has fallen, your trusted subordinates dead, and you yourself are at the mercy of a filthy mortal; what could you possibly do on your own?"

"Enough!" Gwyndolin's strained cry was punctuated by a flash of light, transporting him from the rear alcove to the entrance of the hall, where he held his staff aloft with brilliant moonlight - an impressive feat, given that he seemed to sway for a moment afterwards. "I won't tolerate thy transgressions any further, whelp! I am... the Dark Sun Gwyndolin, and... thee shalt atone... for thy..."

As he struggled through his monologue, the light faded into the tip of his catalyst, and without warning the Dark Sun of Anor Londo collapsed, shaking with stress and pale with nausea. Aldrich stared at the fallen god, waiting for a righteous display of the Darkmoon's justice, and when none manifested he roared with laughter. "Is this... truly...!?"

As he reveled in his adversary's weakness, Gwyndolin slowly lifted himself from the tiled floor, hissing and sweating with effort. As the Saint of the Deep was still enraptured in his own advantageous position, Gwyndolin readied a number of holy arrows, nocking them into his bow and blessing them with strained prayers to the Darkmoon. Letting them fly, Aldrich showed off his skills by casually leaning away from them, his laughter intensifying at the futile effort to catch him off guard.

Finally dying down, Aldrich looked down upon Gwyndolin as a parent would upon an upstart child. "Oh, this is delicious; the final true deity of Anor Londo, unable to stop his greatest foe because of a simple mortal's cold! Truly you are worthy of Gwyn's legacy, with your lack of true strength and self-aggrandizing behavior."

During Aldrich's making a mockery of him, Gwyndolin once more attempted to manifest the Darkmoon's energy to strike down the sinner before him, but was forced to cease his attempt earlier than previously to keep upright. Panting, he glared at Aldrich - his cloudy eyes visible - and fixed his mask, which had come askew when he collapsed previously. "Is this all... thee wanted me for? Didst thee humiliate me ere thy followers... just so thee could mock me further in halls... too sacred for thy filth?"

Chuckling and waving an appendage, Aldrich forced Gwyndolin into a corner, mouth opening wide. "No, no no no... You bear the inheritance and birthright of Gwyn, Lord of Sunlight" he muttered, tendrils snapping forward and ensnaring the Darkmoon. "And I made it my mission to extinguish all remnants of the Flame long ago."

* * *

Having consumed much and exhausting himself in the battle for Anor Londo, the Devourer of Gods elected to rest and recuperate. Passing faithful members of the Cathedral may have overheard unintelligible mutterings and sharp intakes of breath, as in his sleep he found himself in a positively dreamy world with helpless inhabitants. Tearing through the pitiful creatures who challenged him - wielding miracles from both the Deep and the Darkmoon - Aldrich quickly found himself casting a great dragon's corpse into the abyss below as he crossed a truly dilapidated bridge. At the far end, cold and alone, stood a crumbling, open-roof tower with only the one entrance leading to its interior, and with absolutely no pause he passed through.

The familiar haze of the dreamworld thickened at this point, obscuring his senses and memory. Whilst he could not recognize the being who defended itself from his violence - nor how exactly it dispelled him - he still found himself recalling and entranced by the weapon it wielded. As soon as he had roused himself, he ordered for some parchment and ink to be brought to him; once they were brought before them, he curtly dismissed the deacons before turning to the page, scribbling and humming as he attempted to communicate the cold, leeching majesty of the Lifehunter.

Finishing his draft, he surged from the alcove to request a batch of prisoners be brought forth as test subjects when he realized that none had been brought before him once he had awoken. Not moments after coming to this realization did the stench hit him - the trademark scent of rotting, cumbersome dregs - and he forced his hungers to put aside the meal available in favor of finding the perpetrators.

That much was not necessary, however; the doors opened inward, and a trio of humans cautiously edged through, weapons poised and shields raised. One of them was a Blade of the Darkmoon - that much was certain due to the horror on their face as they fell to the floor, crying out at the sight of the Dark Sun's remains worn like clothes; electing them as his first target, he smiled and waved playfully directly at the slumping figure before opening a portal into the Deep, descending into its dark depths.

Finding his way to a spot directly underneath them - using the sight granted by the Deep to track their soul energy - Aldrich shot out of the sludge covering the floor of the hall, twirling his staff and slashing in a wide arc, nearly killing the Darkmoon and scattering the others. Having been offered space, he immediately put it to use by summoning and lobbing corrupted moonlight spears, hoping to aggravate the servant of the Dark Sun into making himself into a foolish, if delicious, snack. Sure enough, whilst he was dispersing clusters of soulmasses, the Darkmoon charged with a wordless cry, slashing in a frenzy at the more amorphous portion of his body.

Chuckling, the Devourer of Gods rose upwards and to the side - intending to skewer the overzealous idiot - when one of their partners leaped up and grabbed onto Gwyndolin's robes, pulling him back down and causing him to miss his target, instead impaling the poor tile that had been laid in the wrong space in an earlier time. Growling with fury, Aldrich attempted to shake them off whilst spraying beams of moonlight throughout the hall, strobing as they lanced out and violent when they exploded, smashing columns and cratering the floors. The Astoran knight was unfazed, however - slowly climbing up the sickly gown of sinew until she could reach the Dark Sun's corpse - and leaped up and grabbed onto his shoulders, where she drew her straight sword and swung in an overhead arc.

While she failed to strike at the Dar Sun's collar - as Aldrich sensed the attack and evaded it as best he could - she still managed to sever his left arm, forcing Aldrich to reveal the repulsive material allowing him to play puppet-master to grab the descending limb. Leaving it attached via the semisolid muck, Aldrich reached with it to his back and viciously tugged the warrior from his back, watching with sadistic pleasure as she connected with one of the few unbroken columns and fell to the floor, unmoving.

Having removed one foe from the fight, Aldrich spun and released a horde of locusts from his mouth, harassing the Blade and unkindled ash in order to create distance between them. However, the horde was swiftly put down, and the unkindled one fired lightning greatarrows as fast as they could nock them, constantly readjusting the greatbow's position to account for the dancing motions Aldrich made as he backed away from the Darkmoon Blade's renewed assault.

His patience having run thin, Aldrich - or was it Gwyndolin? - screeched with fury and retreated into the Deep once more, reluctantly evoking the First Flame as he resurfaced in front of the alcove shrouded in fire. The Devourer of Gods suddenly found himself laughing as he himself prepared an arrow, anticipating his attackers' violent deaths and the disgust of the Dark Sun beholding his corruption of the Darkmoon. Letting it fly, the arrow shattered in the air above him, creating a vortex of energy and vomiting a rapid stream consisting of dozens of moonlight arrows, which demolished the column separating Aldrich and the Darkmoon Blade. As they failed to escape, the righteous crusader of the Dark Sun howled in agony as they were peppered with hundreds of arrows before they died, prompting the hallowed projectiles to change course and slide towards the unkindled ash.

Seemingly deprived of morale, the unkindled ash fell to her knees, breaking down in terror and begging for her life. Far too deep in bloodlust to care, Aldrich hummed the song from earlier as a ghostly, admittedly pale imitation of the Lifehunt scythe manifested at the edge of his staff; spying the Astoran slowly rousing herself, he grinned whilst raising his scythe to come down upon the still-prostrating ashen one, eagerly anticipating the post-victory feast that awaited him.

As it fell, it cut apart the very air in its path, shattering molecules as it homed in on the unkindled ash's neck. At the very last moment, however, his course changed and he somehow failed to land the blow. Puzzled, he clutched at his head and moaned - unaware of the unkindled one and Astoran falling back to strike from a distance - as the Dark Sun made his presence known.

 _"Thee wilt pervert the Darkmoon and its divine purpose **no more!"**_

Roaring with anger and agony, the corpse of the Dark Sun fractured as the former owner's essence thrashed at Aldrich's mind, releasing the staff and rendering the body useless. Completely beside himself with rage - and a touch of fear, borne of the death he sought to obviate - the Devourer of the Gods swallowed Gwyndolin's body to deny his attackers the opportunity to recover the sacred crown of the Darkmoon, then spat out miracle after miracle in all directions. Alas, having been broken in mind and body, Aldrich soon found his physical form collapsing once more; now accompanied by the splitting of his soul into fragments.

" _No! **NO! I CANNOT FAIL - THE DEEP, IT CALLS TO ME!**_ " Trembling, he reached out to the night sky, attracting the attention of the Deep itself as it beheld its prophet's demise.

" _Great powers that be, I demand as your champion that you save my soul and grant me the chance to serve you in the future! I solemnly swear - as prophet of your word on this world - that I shall not fail you anymore!_ " But there was no response, even as the Astoran and ashen one watched Aldrich's dying breakdown. _" **Please!**_ "

The Deep stared for a moment longer, disappointment somehow communicated without any message, and it turned away as Aldrich's screams punctuated his final shudders of life.

* * *

*leans back in chair* Aaaaaand... done!

I apologise for the immense delay with this chapter; I poorly managed my time and mixed up some dates, so most of the last few weeks has been spent alternating between procrastinating and rushing through assessments (including one that was a few days late because of the aforementioned mixup). That doesn't excuse the lack of writing at all, so I apologise again.

So I've decided on what I'm going to do about previous chapters: once I finish Lorian and Lothric's chapter (up next), and once I've brushed off the requests I've received (at this stage the Nameless King, but I'm waiting on others), I'm going to return to the older chapter and revitalise them with the model I've been practising since chapter 10. This'll involve a new idea I had about having certain chapters crossover with others; for example, I may throw in some segments into Raime's chapter depicting his fight with Velstadt, which I'll repeat from the latter's perspective in his chapter. I'll try to power through that so I can get back to new chapters, but I wanted to improve my previous works now that I feel that I've improved as a writer.

Anyway, I apologise again for leaving you guys hanging for so long, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!

P.S. Can we get a round of applause for 6,000+ words!? The evil prick in this chapter doesn't deserve it, but we may as well celebrate the milestone!


	15. Window 15 - Lorian and Lothric

"Splendid progress, my Lord. Try again."

Grimacing with distaste, Prince Lothric lazily stretched an arm directly away from and above his bed, not even glancing at where ever he aimed before firing a dazzling crystal spear of holy light. Anyone else would have been harshly reprimanded for being so apathetic with their use of spells, but no atypical admonishments were spoken; most people were not bedridden by a curse, and his towering bed covered in gifted sorcery tomes was proof of both his status and proficiency.

His tutor shook her head, succeeding as always in finding some way to fault his otherwise flawless work. "Do try to look where you're casting, my Lord, it's inappropriate and childish when you don't." She scribbled some notes down in a booklet before looking up again. "Still, your capabilities with sorcery are commendable. Now..."

Setting down her notebook and picking up a large, leather-bound tome, she opened it to the latter half and ran her finger down the pages until she hummed in approval. "Tell me, what actions must be taken to open the path to the Kiln of the First Flame?"

Sighing quietly enough to avoid reproach and rolling his eyes, the heir apparent leaned on the mattress' edge and stared down into his tutor's eyes as he rattled off his answer. "As dictated by the Lords, and continued as tradition by their rightful heirs, an individual who would link the First Flame..." He shuddered with with resentment. "...must first vanquish four bearers of great souls, so that they may be deemed worthy to approach the First Flame and its custodian."

So the rest of his lesson continued, with the younger prince's tutor requesting for recitations of the history of the world, adherence to laws he would never enforce, and other outdated traditions which only led to lives like his being absolutely miserable. Glancing at the hourglass set on his bedside - operated by a mechanism to compensate for its large size - he groaned with weariness at the prospect of spending another half-hour in this stifling chamber, being groomed and pruned for a position no sane individual would ask for.

Fortunately, as he often did in his interactions with his brother, the doors to Lothric's chambers burst in and the imposing figure of Prince Lorian entered the chamber. Immediately setting his sights on his brother, the to-be King of Lothric threw his arms out wide and grinned, his helmet removed to uncover his eyes and let his brilliant, platinum-blond hair flow freely from his scalp to his shoulders. "Brother!"

For the first time in the last few days, Lothric gave a genuine, if small smile. "Lorian..." He would have continued had his brother not rapidly - albeit gently - lifted him from his bed and held him close, laughing with joy. Having let Lorian have his fun, he continued. "It's good to see you, brother."

A shrill shriek cut off whatever response Lorian had made up on the spot. " _My lord, can you not see that your brother is in the middle of a lesson!?_ He must be left undisturbed if he is to have any hope of overcoming his condition and inheriting-"

"Please, stop." While he was still wearing his oft-present grin, the light in Lorian's eyes had taken a noticeably darker glint - contrasting less sharply against his olive skin - as he stared at Lothric's tutor. "He's been 'neglecting his duties' for, what, a few hours out of his life?" He glanced at the prince in question, who was biting his lip to keep one of his rare laughs contained. "What do you think, hm?"

Stuck in the truly sublime gap between bemusement and amusement, Lothric stared into space before starting. "Oh, sorry, I-"

"No need to apologize. See? He's so dedicated to understanding and fulfilling what's expected of him that he got lost in thought! Truly, that is the mark of a diligent figure whom would succeed in their predestined course."

Breathing sharply through her withered nose, the tutor remained unmoved by Lorian's flippant deflections. "In any case, it is wildly improper for even the prince's brother to barge into his lesson and _distract him_ from such an important-"

"Task, which is of such dire importance that he will resume it tomorrow, after a well-deserved break." Lorian gestured with his hand towards the doors. "If you wouldn't mind, the prince's brother would like a word with his younger sibling."

Practically smoking like the incense in Lothric's chambers, the tutor gathered up her books and left the chambers with a huff, escorted from the tower by a pair of Lothric's stalwart knights. With his lesson unofficially over, Lothric turned his gaze towards the still-amused giant. "I appreciate your intervention, brother, but you could have been more polite than that."

He raised his hand to his chest, feigning horror. "What's this? Lothric, my petulant brother and unholy defier of order, asking me to be polite? Oh, _truly_ this is the end of days!"

Snorting with amusement, Lothric's smile fell just a touch. "Indeed; but please, don't let comments about myself work you into a frenzy. Truly, it doesn't matter how they choose their words if they are only stating facts."

Lorian, now genuinely worried, sighed. "I know, but... you're my brother; I can't just let them get away with speaking of you like you're some kind of burden, can I?" Silence reigned for a few moments, before the elder prince squared his shoulders and made for the bed, setting his brother down with as much care as when he held him as a child. "But enough of that dreary nonsense, I imagine that your months without me have been a little more exciting than hum-drum history lessons and long periods of staring at drooling scholars!"

Huffing with pent-up frustration, Lothric shook his head. "If only that were true; Mother has been retreating to her chambers increasingly often, almost as if she's planning something, and never visits me or the masses like she used to. Father isn't much better, as he only sees me to sort out my affairs before retreating to the archives - rattling off about this dragon he discovered in one of the older texts. The only comfort I've been granted during those times were inconsistent audiences with Captain Charny, and all that accomplished was making me even more keenly aware of my boredom."

Lorian snickered. "Geffory of Charny, carrier of the holy banner of Lothric? The 'true and perfect knight'? All that pompous stifler ever did for me was help me discover the various ways to escape lectures from your superiors." His face donned a lewd smirk. "Knight-Commander Evaline, on the other hand... she was quite instructive on _and_ off the training grounds..."

Lothric rolled his eyes, albeit in a more good-natured fashion than several minutes prior. "I'm sure. If only she could have been any more than a forbidden lover."

Sighing wistfully, his brother nodded. "I know; I still wish it wasn't forbidden to for a royal to choose a spouse not of noble blood. She was such a jester to be around... and when she started talking about the sciences... She almost made me want to give it another shot!"

Lothric smiled fondly - reminded once more that Lorian's affairs with the fairer sex were often sparse and deeper in meaning than his temperament implied - and then froze when he bothered to take in the sight of his brother's armor now that he had gotten over the relief of his arrival. Tentatively, Lothric reached forward and brushed his hand along the left pauldron. "Brother, what... what is this? What happened?"

What should have merely been dark-bronze armor was nearly charred black and covered in soot, the beautiful fabric of the robes around his waist tattered and blackened beyond hope of salvaging. Most noticeable of all, however, was the enormous greatsword slung on his back, similarly burnt and even glowing an angry red in various unfamiliar cracks along its blade.

The elder prince winced, clearly hoping his brother wouldn't notice the state of his equipment. "Noticed, did you? Erm..." He gingerly rubbed the back of his head. "We tracked down the demon host to this derelict castle with fresh tunnels dug into the earth, and we attacked as soon as our spies picked out their prince - this monstrous bastard, muscular and covered in flames. I killed the creature myself, but..." He guided his hand down his armor as if he were showing off a particularly prideful hunting trophy. "Well, you can see for yourself."

Lothric shivered, his anxious mind filling holes with material he had no desire to witness. "Please enlighten me, brother: how close did the demon prince bring you to death?"

His brother looked away, which even if he had remained silent was all the information the younger prince required. "I'll admit, the battle came close several times before the prince fell-" A shaky gasp silenced his explanation, and Lorian gingerly set his hands on Lothric's shoulders. "Look, it doesn't matter, OK? I'm here now, I'm safe and nothing's wrong-"

" _But you aren't unscathed!_ " His distressed shout clearly had a greater effect on the elder prince than any blunt weapon could, as he flinched with surprise and didn't even open his mouth to respond. "You- your armor is severely damaged, I can tell, you clearly d-didn't want me to know h-how close you came to- to..." Reaching the extent of his composure, Lothric cradled his head with his hands as he sobbed. "Wh-what if you... never came back? I-I don't know i-if I could've-"

"Lothric, look at me." Lorian demanded, sternly grasping and holding his brother's arms in place as he locked gazes with the distraught heir of fire. "Remember when you were just starting with your lessons and the stress was eating away at you?"

He waited a minute for the younger prince to calm down, after which his brother nodded. "I-I do, I think; you attracted their ire when you knocked over one of father's favorite vases." A half-smile managed to break through his stricken expression. "You snuck into my chambers even after being sent to yours explicitly to see if I was alright."

Lorian's resolute frown did not falter, but his eyes seemed to warm just a little. "I did, but that's not why I brought it up. Tell me; did you honestly think I developed my characteristic rebellious streak out from nowhere? That one day I woke up and decided to cause as much chaos and mayhem as my position would allow?"

About halfway through Lorian's speech, the younger prince fell silent and stared. "You... you did that for me, didn't you? You defied Mother and Father just so you could-"

"Make the situation just a bit less difficult for you, yes." The elder prince snapped his fingers, bringing his brother out of another of his dazes so he could finish. "While I never intended to embrace that lifestyle as eagerly as I did - even if I did come to enjoy it far more than I did my prior obedience - I never did it because I was bored, or dissatisfied, or - as the High Priestess once eloquently put it - because my soul had been 'tainted by the Abyss'. I did it because I was your brother, and seeing you so depressed every day left wounds I never realized could be inflicted until then." He sat himself down upon the podium enclosing Lothric's bed, bringing himself to the eye-level of his enraptured brother. "That's why I didn't tell you what happened during that last expedition. You already have enough to ruin your days; it wouldn't have been fair to make you worry needlessly."

The twin princes let the conversation fall silent, Lothric rebuilding his composure and Lorian giving his brother time to process the eruption of truth that had transpired. After a few minutes of silence had passed, the younger prince leaned backward to give the elder prince space, taking a breath and gathering his thoughts.

"... I... I thank you for your concern, but..." Another deep breath. "Please do not leave me in the dark in such a manner again; it terrifies me so, to imagine your last words never reaching my ears."

Lorian nodded, taking Lothric's hand in his own. "Of course I won't, brother. I may be the heir apparent of Lothric, but your happiness has always warranted my immediate attention."

Lothric nodded, accepting his brother's logic and retreating into silence. The two of them remained seated in Lothric's chambers for a short while longer, both of them appreciative of the silence for different reasons, before Lorian stood up and stretched his arms. "Well, seeing as your tutors have been unusually generous today - at the behest of a to-be-king, probably - why don't we go for a walk through the palace gardens? You've always liked that, haven't you?"

It was partly true; going to the gardens was another vapid experience in his life, unless it was a rare instance in which his brother joined him. Nodding and linking his arms around his brother's neck, he met the turned gaze of the elder prince and smiled. "I _do_ enjoy such trips, and I would be glad for your company."

* * *

As the procession neared their destination, Lothric reminisced on his desired company, and sorely wished he was unaccompanied by all save his brother; just like times such as those. Sadly, the regency council of Lothric - who had assumed rule between the disappearance of his mother, the deposing of his father, and coronation of his brother - had insisted on sending him to the Kiln of the First Flame with a small company of elite Lothric knights; all for his protection, of course.

He snorted with enmity; if they cared about his wellbeing at all, then at the very least they could have let him spend more time with the newly-crowned King Lorian - who had joined him despite their protests - in the weeks before their departure. Despite his grievances, he was glad to have the elder brother with him, as it allowed him an opportunity to seek once-absent counsel whenever he desired, and witness the truly awe-inspiring sight of Lorian in combat; bias was surely coloring his opinion, but there was no warrior who could have possibly moved as fast and struck as hard as the brass-clad warrior-king of Lothric.

A fearsome roar shook the procession - more accurately, the men who carried Lothric's palanquin - and one of the wizened regent-scholars was at his side immediately. "My lord, we must retreat to a safe distance so that your brother may-"

"Yes, yes, I understand. Do so, if it would satiate your craven tendencies." Lorian may have either rolled his eyes or softly scolded the younger prince for being more harsh than usual with those who attended him, but the journey and continued passing of burdens onto his shoulders by the noble-men and -women of Lothric was causing his already strained patience to rapidly dwindle.

It was not long before they resumed their approach on twisting, warped spires of the Kiln, with King Lorian and his retinue having expertly neutralized the hideous monster that had blocked their path. The younger prince spared a glance as they passed the creature, and held his gaze to take in the repulsive form of these snake-like hybrids that formed from men who held particularly dark souls. Sensing the prince's discomfort, an attendant offered some refreshments, and elected to leave the heir-apparent be when he did not complain about the continued pampering.

Such was the hour-or-so remainder of their journey: the vanguard would dispatch any threat to the one who would link the First Flame, the procession would pass, and Lothric would look increasingly unwell - if such a thing were possible, thanks to the nature of his curse. Such was his troubled self-absorption that the captain of the knights personally overseeing his safety - Knight-Commander Logarius - had to gently jostle him to gain his attention. "Erm- Pardon me, I was lost in thought, are we...?"

Removing his helmet, the emaciated face of Logarius greeted him, nodding in affirmation. "We have arrived, your grace; would you like us to prepare a litter with which to carry you to the First Flame proper?"

The younger prince opened his mouth to begrudgingly accept the proposal, but caught the eyes of his brother standing uncomfortably with his knights; Lorian's ascension to the throne, much to his dismay, had alienated him from what few friends his prior status had allowed him, and even then he was forced to choose his squad from the ranks of the elite knights who guarded the monarchs of Lothric.

Having made his decision, Lothric turned once more to the Knight-Commander. "If the request is not impertinent, might I instead be accompanied by the king? He has been exhausting himself with ensuring the safety of both myself and those under his command; perhaps some time alone with his brother in a-" He paused, searching for an appropriate term. "- _relatively_ safe environment would do some good for him?"

Logarius gave the younger prince, but bowed all the same. "As you wish, we shall obey." Rising up and donning his helmet, he quickly covered the distance between the palanquin and the elder brother, looking remarkably cautious about appearing insubordinate before the King of Lothric. Unperturbed, Lorian followed the knight-commander back to the palanquin, politely waving off the supplicating scholars around him. Kneeling down, he locked gazes with the younger prince, and paused. "You wanted me?"

"Forgive me if you are already troubled, but would it be too much to ask for you to escort me to the Kiln?'

Despite the unmistakable signs of exhaustion adorning his features, Lorian managed a weak smile. "For you, dear brother, nothing is too much to ask." He quickly scooped Lothric - careful to keep his sword's blade away from the fragile prince in his arms - and stopped before the entrance to the Kiln, turning to face the procession. "I will be with the true heir, if any of you need me."

Stepping through the portal, the twin brothers found themselves in a small arena, decorated with several curved spikes, gentle waves of ash, and the iconic, sacred bonfire at the center. Both of the two royals halted as soon as it came to their attention - Lorian staring with wonder, Lothric with thinly-veiled trepidation - standing on the spot for a moment before the king of Lothric walked over to the First Flame and slowly set his brother down.

Lothric glanced up at his brother, noting his far-off expression had yet to fade. "That was far less lively and fascinating than the gardens, wasn't it?"

Lorian's gaze snapped to his - as if only now becoming aware of the prince's presence - and he hesitated before forcing a smile. "Yes, it wasn't the most colorful of places we've ever been to; then again, fire has never cared for appearances or reputation..."

The younger prince nodded, then awkwardly waited for his brother to continue the conversation; when no response came, he sighed and brought himself closer. "Brother, what gnaws at you so? I do believe you are the one to bring life to our interactions."

Lorian opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and finally let out a sigh as his shoulders slumped. "I know, I... I just..." He looked up, concern etched into his face at such depth as to look uncomfortably unfamiliar. "Aren't you upset about this? You put up a brave front, but surely you're just as unwilling to link the Fire as much as before we left?"

A bitter laugh kept the silence at bay, and Lothric had to catch himself before he fell face-first into the wellspring of souls. "Of course I am, brother; I am both terrified and bitter that this has come to pass. But..." He curled up and wrapped his spindly arms around his torso, seemingly unwilling to face his paragon of a brother. "I have been groomed for this moment my entire life, and even looking into the flames now, I... I find myself unable to think of any other course of action." He shuffled closer and took Lorian's hand in both of his. "Besides, it would be abhorrent of myself to deny you - my dear brother, and your new subjects - the future that would be granted with the linking of the First Flame."

Signs of several emotions flashed across the king's face, until they settled for a look of regret. "I'm sorry I couldn't be a better brother, and help you more than I did..." He knelt down and held a finger to Lothric's lips to keep him from interrupting. "But I want you to know that you were never a burden, and whatever happens I will always love you."

The last hope of Lothric's line smiled. "I love you too, and thank you." With a sad smile and a grunt, he rotated on the spot until he was facing the bonfire of the First Flame. "But I have accepted my fate, for such is my curse."

He reached out and grasped the hilt of the coiled sword with both hands without a word, and not moments afterwards broke the tragic silence with a howl of pain. The flames crept up his arms, burning and yet leaving no marks as they absorbed the fuel of his soul to feed the new influx of souls that would be ushered forth, and indirectly inhibited his senses as his mind was overwhelmed by the unadulterated agony of the linking. Long had he dreaded this moment - when he would burn himself alive for untold centuries at the behest of old fools to afraid of change - but, in this ironically rare moment to himself, he realized with sudden clarity that, if it was the only way he could repay his brother for the sacrifices he'd made on his behalf, then there were certainly worse ways to die.

His introspection was interrupted when one of his hands was wrenched from the coiled sword and held by gauntleted fingers, and despite his torment recognized with horror the new cry of pain immediately. " _Brother!? What are you doing-_ "

" _ **I am not letting you suffer alone! I never have, and I never will!**_ " The King of Lothric nudged Lothric's grip further to ensure he endured most of the First Flame's hunger, and so the younger prince watched helplessly as the Flame's attention shifted to the plainer, yet far more powerful soul that had joined their apotheosis. He shrieked with renewed anguish as the Flame tied together the strands of their souls, desperately clawing within them for sustenance, and-

\- the flame erupted, casting both of their bodies away from the bonfire.

The rumble of the explosion faded, and yet Lothric's ears still rang like the chimes in his chambers, nearly enough to drown out the cheers of joy outside. He still remembered the events preceding the linking of the Fire, however - shouldn't he already have lost consciousness? - and so the very first action he took was to crawl towards the shape of his brother, whimpering as the remaining embers of the Flame's touch scorched his soul and fearful for Lorian's life.

Eventually, after what may have been a minute or a year, Lothric was close enough to the unsettlingly still form of Lothric's king that his rasping whispers could perhaps reach his ears. "Lorian... Lorian, can you... hear me?"

There was not even the turning of a head to indicate that he had heard him.

By now the fear in his gut had spread throughout his body, metamorphosing into unwelcome dread and lending much-needed strength to his voice. "Brother, do you hear me? Brother!?" Still no response. "Lorian, please, don't do this...!"

His words died in his mouth, thoughts scrambling for an explanation, as he realized what the Linking of the Flame had done to his brother. His formerly bronze skin had paled to a sickly white, his flowing hair appeared matted and shiny, and... "Your legs... oh, _gods_ , _your legs_..."

They were exactly like his - frightfully thin, and completely useless.

In the back of his mind, he registered the concerned murmuring of the regents beyond the ruins - what had befallen the King? Was he too close to the Flame? - and immediately returned to old mindsets. _The regents! They will know what to do, they can help him!_

Clutching Lorian close, his head snapped towards the entrance. " _Help! Someone please, help me!_ " But no response came; where they upset he was speaking improperly? Weren't they just outside?! " _Gods, someone please help! My brother is hurt, please, anyone, help!_ "

He screamed himself hoarse - which happened with great speed, as he had never raised his voice before - and yet no one came. Perhaps they were unsettled by the apparently-ghostly cries of their ascended heir of Fire, or the passage of time had not yet been noticed by the one lucid twin prince; in the end, all that mattered was that they were both alone, as was the nature of their curse.

* * *

The silence in his chambers was no longer the welcome distraction it once proved to be.

After the twin brothers had become aware of their current situation - sent forward in time without warning or fanfare - they returned to the worn ruins of their castle, Lorian moaning with the unexpected effort and Lothric moaning with grief with each sound that left his brother's lips. Along the way, they discovered structures and creatures that they did not recognize - since when was there a cathedral near the villager's settlement? - and came to realize that this was no mere displacement of time; they had been removed from their homeland as well, to some twisted facsimile of the world.

Or rather, _he_ realized what had become of their situation, as the elder brother was no longer capable of realizing much after linking the Flame.

With much effort - and much engagement with the Hollowed defenders of Lothric, formerly sworn to guard the princes with their lives - the royalty of Lothric returned to the bed-chambers of the prince. He had never wondered if he would ever look favorably upon this gilded cage of his youth, and yet here he was; retreating to this sudden sanctum sanctorum to hide away from the mistake of his past.

And then an envoy had come - indeed, none other than one of the Fire Keepers - to inform them of the final death of the First Flame and bring them to a far-off Shrine so they could offer up their cinders and save it once more.

Even if the former king of Lothric was sapient enough to recognize a command, Lothric would have neither ordered nor reprimanded him for cutting down the holy woman where she stood - she saw what the Flame had done to him, after he made such a noble sacrifice, and she had the gall to ask them of such a fate _again!?_ From there his mind turned to the history of the Flame, and how it had consumed the lives of untold hundreds to sustain it - discounting the many millions that proved to be little more than fuel for the past Lords of Cinder - before reaffirming his choice to remain within his home, ready to comfort his brother when the pitiable warrior had one of his fits.

Let the Flame die; it was less than it deserved for being the indirect source of all suffering throughout the many ages of Fire.

Now, though, he rested his head upon his hands and gazed into the space where the chamber doors remained, yearning for the comforting tinkling of chimes and mesmerizing flitting of candle smoke to preoccupy his attention. After spending weeks to himself - mostly thinking of trivial wastes of time to distract him from the self-loathing he manifested after Lorian's sacrifice - he had grown weary of lacking any conversation partners, and found his resolve wavering.

Yet it did not matter; the only other option was to return to Firelink Shrine, and that would betray the oath he had sworn to the challenged, broken shadow of his brother. No matter the stress, regardless of the pain, he would not falter if it meant avenging his brother and saving the rest of history the unjust treatment he and his predecessors had endured.

The other fault to having no distractions was that he became immediately and fully aware of the sounds of battle growing closer and closer.

Trying and failing to suppress a sigh of long-suffered exasperation, the doors were opened by one other than a member of the royal family for the first time in untold millennia, revealing one of those "Unkindled" Lothric had observed on his and his brother's return to the castle. _Oh dear; another dogged contender..._ Did he say that out loud? He could not bring himself to care either way, instead mustering the will to give the expected speech.

"Welcome, Unkindled One, purloiner of cinders." He paused, and like a good, sick little pup the slayer of lords waited for him to continue, unaware that it would be put down within moments for daring to ask this much with its mere presence alone.

"You have come to fetch me for the Fire, haven't you? Chasing that prophecy like a bat, blind and unaware of the wretched cruelty of lordship; all you're interested in is any hope of saving your skin, aren't you?" He gestured to the side with as much subtlety as he could - let it think him helpless whilst his brother prepared to strike. "Well, I expect _you_ seek it feverishly, but the mantle of lord interests me none. The fire-linking curse... the callous legacy of lords... the suffering of souls... let it all fade to nothing, I say."

The unmistakable sound of metal scraping on stone caught the attention of both prince and pauper, and yet Lothric only smiled sadly at the image of his brother, dead in mind yet still aware enough to recognize a threat to the little light in his life. "You've done quite enough, servant of lords; now, have your rest."

He muttered a quick incantation, and with no further warning Lorian descended upon the purloiner of cinders, shocking them into action which barely saved it from being impaled by the elder prince's blade. It reoriented itself and made to strike, only to raise its shield and be propelled backwards by a swift backward slash; quickly sipping from its flask, it rolled under the thrust which would have otherwise pinned it to a column and swung upwards with its axe, embedding the blade deep into Lorian's arm and prompting a growl of pain. Both fearful and angry, Lothric spirited his brother away, goading the Unkindled One into charging at the elder prince with reckless abandon.

The resulting exchange left grievous wounds on both combatants; whilst the Unkindled One was able to retreat and drink from its flask to heal its wounds, Lorian was less fortunate, and Lothric's stomach fell with familiar and unwelcome dread at the sight of his brother collapsing to the ground. He already owed his brother so much; he could not let him die when he had the means to save him.

"Brother... I am on my way." With a quick incantation, the younger prince was kneeling beside his brother's still form, close enough to hear his labored breathing as he gingerly took his brother's hand as physical proof that he was there, that he wasn't alone and that he was thankful.

First, however, the intruder had to be dealt with. "My brother; unyielding sword of Lothric's prince... rise, if you would..." By instinct he leaned closer to his brother's ear and whispered. "For that is our curse." Having calmed his brother's heart, the prince of Lothric channeled the restorative energies of his holy light - the product of several dynasties experimenting with sorcery-miracle hybrids - and sealed the many lacerations marring his once-perfect skin. Finally, he wrapped his arms around Lorian's neck, who slowly raised himself to the fullest stature he could maintain with his affliction, as he would not leave his brother.

In spite of the apathy which dominated Lothric's life, he sincerely believed that if Lorian was once willing to die for him, he would be willing to die for Lorian. "I will always stand at your side, brother... till even the Dark retreats to whence it came."

His parting words spoken, Lothric summoned and launched a volley of light orbs at the purloiner of cinders, who rolled and weaved through the approaching masses even as it blocked and ducked away from Lorian's blows. Perhaps recognizing the danger of leaving him alive, it began to bait the former king into using powerful yet exhausting attacks, with which it would race around and cut deep into the vulnerable prince's back. Each and every time Lothric would bring to bear a new weapon - a lance of light, a debilitating blast of sound, even the sword which he was too weak to use - and fail to deter his opponent, who would back off only when the king's weapon was brought to bear once more.

He was dying; he could feel it in the way his blood stained his robes and coagulated on the floor. _Father would have a fit if he saw me ruining these robes for any reason..._ "I am growing weak, brother; we must finish this before we succumb to our wounds."

Had they not been on the precipice of death, Lothric may have allowed himself to dwell on the fact that he saw Lorian _nod in understanding_ before grunting and slowly standing up. Glancing at and satisfied by the sight of the Unkindled One backing away in stupefaction, the last hope of Lothric's line supported Lorian's weight when his legs threatened to buckle, and channeled his light into the growing flames of the elder brother's sword, which glowed an incandescent white-blue. They held the stance for a few moments, letting the magic and fire unite and charge in tandem whilst the purloiner only just began to snap out of its stupor.

The blade fell.

As soon as it collided with the ground, a roaring arc of holy fire surged forth, missing the leaping purloiner of cinders and blasting a hole in the wall of Lothric's chambers, gusts of wind surging into the open space and dancing around with joy as the three combatants squared off. Seeing that Lorian was struggling to recuperate from the stress of his last maneuver, it rushed forth and sliced with enough force to sever the king's sword arm, yet was denied when with the last of his strength the king batted him into a column, cracking its worn surface and causing the elder brother to slump and lay in exhaustion.

Lothric brushed his brother's cheek and smiled - their first, hopefully only battle together, and they had _won_. "You did so well, brother; now we truly will be together for-"

He gasped, blood flowing into his lungs through the aperture opened by the sword as it plunged into his torso.

Coughing, he looked down to see the Unkindled One's blade protruding from his chest an instant before he was shoved off of his perch, leaving him unable to gaze away from several locks being removed with Lorian's head. A pointless effort; as it panted, the purloiner of cinders reached for Lorian's corpse, only for it to eject its soul and unite it with the shard in Lothric's bosom, and as it approached, the prince grasped his arm.

Everything was fading fast. "You tragic fool..." Only a few words more, why couldn't he...? "You will always... remain amongst... the... accursed..."

His hand fell lifeless to the floor, and his eyes fell shut a moment after.

* * *

Sorry for the delay; some assignments, but mostly procrastination and laziness kept me from putting this out faster.

Writing this was the most fun I've had with this fic ever, _especially_ the first section - whilst possible OOC moments are abound, I figured that Lorian was a bit of a jester and rebel for his time, specifically because he wanted to cheer his brother up. Still, writing the end of the second section was pretty harrowing, since I myself have a twin brother and wondered what situations we would have to be in for myself to act like Lothric did.

But enough of that dreary stuff; now to the future! I'm honestly unsure of what I want to do here; I'm aware that there are a few submissions that you guys are waiting on, but I was really looking forward to returning to older chapters and revising them to be more lore- and dialogue-heavy. At this stage, I think I'll work through the current requests - including but not limited to our favourite *coughSUNWARRIORcough* firstborn of Gwyn - before going back and revising what chapters I want to adjust at the moment - in order, Ornstein and Smough, Gwyndolin, Nito, Sif, Sir Alonne, and Gwyn. Send more requests if you guys want, but I can't promise a hasty address to them whilst I revise previous chapters.

Now that that little info-dump's been dealt with, I'm gonna head off, start work on the Nameless King, and do some much needed study for my statistics exam on Wednesday, which is also on my birthday. Uni's fun, isn't it? Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	16. Window 16 - The Nameless Firstborn

_The squad huddling in one of the many deep crags scattered across the world would not last much longer._

 _They were supposed to infiltrate and destroy one of the several nesting sites identified by the Platinum Lords - supposedly based off of intel provided by none other than the Paledrake himself - and they had accomplished that without a problem. Plant a black firebomb or two with each clutch, set a fuse, and retreat before the explosion would rip open several arses as well as the niche which sheltered the unborn offspring._

 _Unfortunately, the intel they received on the enemy patrols had been botched, and so they were just pulling away from the nest when a pair of Stone Dragons showed up out of nowhere and the bombs went off._

 _Ever since then, they'd been huddling in a ditch, the dragons unable to reach them but completely impervious to harm and absolutely murderous thanks to the deaths of their offspring. As a result, they were perfectly capable and willing to wait for the squad's supplies to dwindle out and fade, just like their morale and eventually their lives. Worse still, their sergeant - a brilliant, if meek fellow - had used one of those "lord-vessel" devices to teleport away at the first opportunity, pushing up his glasses and nervously fidgeting with his stupid curly hair as he talked about "grabbing someone" from the forward camp they'd deployed from._

 _With no leader, no supplies, and no hope, the squad had resigned themselves to their fate - they'd done their jobs, so it didn't stand to reason that at the very least they would not be posthumously honored for their sacrifices - and settled down. They took to passing the time with stories of their homes under the great Arch-Trees and games developed by more undisciplined members of their armies in the hopes of distracting themselves from their inevitable demises._

 _Some of the other troops in their retinue were less than graceful in accepting their fate._

 _"I'm telling you, if we scrounge up some more powder and crack open our lightning urns - whad'ya have Kirk, three intact urns? - we could string up a long-burn explosive that'll get their attention, and we can slip away in the confusion!"_

 _The de-facto second in command, Reinhardt, groaned in frustration and shoved the man desperately convincing his compatriots that there was a way out of this mess that would leave them alive. "For Gwyn's sake, Darren, even if they_ were _distracted by whatever hogwash we could put together, there's no way we could get out of sight before they noticed us running across the plains. We're either sitting ducks, or waddling ducks, and no matter how we handle this we're going to be dinner for those brutes above us!"_

 _By now Darren - and some of the more neurotic members of their squad - were beginning to show signs of several consecutive panic attacks, which kicked in immediately after they manifested when one of the aforementioned monsters belched a river of flame into the space beside them. A few stray tongues even collided with the ledge they were sheltered on, singing the leather uniforms of the troops._

 _A growl caught the squad's attention, and they beheld the sight of the rather reckless Joan hefting the squad banner like a spear. "I've had it with this, I'm going to spear those bastards out of the sky if it's the last thing I do!"_

 _Kirk leaped up from his seat on a small rock, getting out a few words before he turned to glare at the soldier who had stolen the seat from him. "Are you crazy? That idea's about as helpful as Darren's, we'll be slaughtered!"_

 _The two bickering soldiers ignored the indignant cry of the aforementioned tinkerer, instead slugging each other both verbally and literally to settle their argument. As they did so, the dragons up above grew more furious and excited by the sounds coming from the crag, which on top of the thunderous rumbling was truly getting on-_

 _"Quiet!" Reinhardt hissed, holding a hand up which somehow placated the incensed warriors. "Do you hear that?"_

 _The squad froze in silence, and the unmistakable roll of thunder reached their ears. Before anyone could stop her, the squad's scout scampered for the edge of the ravine, and when she couldn't pick out anything from the ledge grabbed onto the precipice and hung over the abyss, scanning the skies. Reinhardt was practically steaming with rage, completely furious with the disregard his subordinates showed for their own lives. "Bradamante, get back here! What are you-"_

 _Laughter, having gone unheard by the squad for weeks, cut off any protests Reinhardt could have made and quelled his anger instantly. As she clambered over the edge, grinning and still laughing with relief, a flash of lightning could be seen for a moment between the lips of the crag. "Praise the Sun, it's High Marshal Gwynathin!"_

 _Everyone froze for a solid ten seconds, during which the agonized cries of the dragons melded into a cacophony of battle with grunts and booms of lightning. They remained stock still until Kirk, one of the more devout members of the squad, scrambled for the crevasse's lips and used a basic grappling hook to rappel up onto the surface. The others made ready to either call out to him or join him themselves, when he leaned back over the edge with child-like awe over his face. "She's right, it's the Heir of the Sun himself! We're saved!"_

 _Excited murmuring spread between the squad, yet was unable to grow much further when a large, gauntleted hand grasped the lip, its owner leaning over and finding them huddled on the ledge. "I understandeth thee valorous men wast in needeth of aid?"_

 _By now the squad was excited with relief; Reinhardt sighed and wiped his brow, Darren bawled into Joan's shoulder while she rolled her eyes affectionately, Kirk looked like he was about to have an aneurysm, and Bradamante was hopping up and down on the spot, unable to contain herself. As they processed their own reactions to the presence of Gwyn's Firstborn, he helped them up, taking their entire torsos in his palm and depositing them on the lifeless rock before reaching down and repeating the process._

 _As soon as the last squad member was safe, Reinhardt stepped forward and kneeled, joined by the other members of the squad. "My gracious lord, why are you here? Surely the greater conflicts with the dragons warrant more attention than the survival of a mere detachment of humans?"_

 _Gwynathin blinked, then shook his head vigorously. "Please, don't diminish yourselves like that; thither is no reason in defeating the Dragons if 't be true thither is no one to celebrate the peace that would follow! Besides" he kneeled down, fishing into his armor for a comparatively small 'pouch' and opening it. "The assistance of Seath the Paledrake hath been beneficial enough that mine presence is no longer mandatory. With such a boon, I tooketh t upon myself to aid the effort wherever I could, so that all who square for the Flames could findeth glory!"_

 _Darren was the first to reach the sack, and cried out with ecstasy when he fished out one of the coveted sunlight medals - proof of both heroic valor and the favor of the Heir of the Sun. As the medals were distributed to excited hands, the god of war looked down upon them, the look in his eyes reminiscent of a father proud of his children's bravery, and he quickly glanced over at the remains of the Dragons whom until recently were unaware of the concept of death._

 _If any of the humans noticed the suddenly dismayed glint in his eyes, none of them commented on it. Instead, Joan walked up to the god of war and glared at him, hands clenched into fists and at her hips. "Did you happen to see a craven bastard on your way here? Glasses, curly hair, about this tall and handsome as a rat?"_

 _Kirk, being the unit's chief cleric, sputtered in terror and rage at the sight of a human being so cavalier with not only a commanding officer, but the very firstborn son of one of the gods. Gwynathin's mouth curled into a coy smile. "I'd gaze thy tongue around the rest of thy companions, lest word of thy irreverence reacheth thy commander's ears - and from then, those of mine father." His expression soured. "But I doth recognise the sir thee describe; whilst his quick-thinking wast commendable, that gent still abandoned his troops. That wast actually the other matter I needed to inform thee of."_

 _Beckoning for Reinhardt, the aged soldier pocketed his sunlight medal and stepped forward. "He's been demoted, hasn't he? Pardon my tongue, my lord, but I'd be lying if I claimed not to see that coming; what a damned fool." He shifted his weight, as if uncomfortable with the idea of even being in the presence of a god - especially one who made all his subordinates feel of equal standing. "Do you happen to know when we're getting our replacement?"_

 _The Heir of the Sun nodded, lips pursed. "Indeed, and that would be right now, lieutenant." His ruse revealed, he grinned with as much pride as there was jest. "Congratulations. Now return to camp, and get your squad some much needed rest."_

 _Nodding with a far-off look, the newly-promoted lieutenant stood up and called his men to order, before having them gather their things and march for the trails of smoke in the distance. Gwynathin watched them for a few moments longer before sighing and turning, gold-coated titanite armor clinking as he began his trek to the ruined dragon nest. He'd been none too pleased by the fact that he needed to kill those dragons to save those men; good men, he didn't blame them, but the dragon's couldn't be brought back._

 _Their immortality only worked one way, after all, and didn't mean anything once their scales were shattered._

 _And what did they do, really, to earn the ire of all those who held Fire with great reverence? Exist? Stare with disdain and disapproval at the shambling husks who delved into the trunks of Arch-Trees to huddle for warmth they couldn't comprehend? He was the god of_ war _, not god of genocide, and yet their conflict with the Stone Dragons seemed just as senseless, just as rooted in discriminative misunderstanding._

 _His thoughts returned to another such rescue mission some weeks before; fueled by a burst of curiosity, he'd ordered for the remaining survivors to retreat so he could interrogate the dragon that'd been terrorizing them after they were forced to withdraw. He only extracted a few useful tidbits of intelligence for his father, and more than a few implications about the dragon's life before their interaction was concluded._

 _He'd let the thing go; it reminded him too much of his own childhood, having been forced into his role and a situation which he didn't understand._

 _Now, that failure to reconcile his purpose with his mission had returned in full force, and he found himself grimacing with distaste at the notion of returning to his father's embrace, as if there was some glory to be found in hunting a dying race into extinction. Frowning in thought, he leaned against his sword-spear, tumultuous thoughts finally darkening the light with which he perceived his role in the rising dominion of Fire._

 _He ripped his sword-spear from the earth and began the journey home, where he could ruminate further on the terrible storm he knew was coming._

* * *

 _It had been many months since that nest was ravaged, and there was still much work to do, if the counsel of his vice-commanders amounted to anything. It must have been an alarming turn of events to warrant such action, as his father himself had ordered for his presence - on top of those commanders already neck-deep in the war effort - in the keep they had constructed to serve as a rallying point for the forces of Fire. Even the Knights of Gwyn, as they were called, had been mobilized to offer additional support, and so it was Gwynathin found himself in a rare, if enjoyable situation._

 _"We don't understandeth t; a few weeks ago, the dragons wast in a frenzy trying to grow in numbers, and yet our scouts has't just hath returned with nothing to report on supposed nesting grounds." Ornstein continued, leafing through the report they had received just before the sun had pierced the world's ever-present fog. "'Tis rather strange... almost as if 't be true those creatures has't taken aid from another source." He glanced up, lion's gaze meeting that of his mentor with no pause. "Thee don't bethink that thither is another threat equally most terrible as the dragons, doth thee?"_

 _The Heir of the Sun smirked. "if 't be true thither truly is a threat as menacing as the dragons waiting in the shadows, then we shalt showeth those folk wherefore they hath found themselves giving aid to another." He clapped the dragonslayer's pauldron, sensing that his companion had yet to ease. "Relax; the dragons art more of a nuisance these days, fitting of excellent hunting quarry for those such as yourself."_

 _Ornstein nodded, his shoulders having lowered considerably. "Aye, aye, thee art right mine lord. Forgive me, it hath been so long since I wast charged with thy family's jutty that I doubted our position ov'r our foes."_

 _Chuckling as his student began to talk about slaying the stone dragons - despite the subject matter, it was always amusing to watch Ornstein's composure break under the passion he felt - the Heir of the Sun found himself grateful for his presence. The increasing number of Gwyn's silver knights had not escaped the attention of either of them, as well as the occasional pair of knights joining them to ensure they reached the great, cathedral-esque keep ahead of them._

 _Gwynathin did not feel the security that they should have offered with such a gesture, and resisted the urge in the back of his head to reach for his sword-spear._

 _They could just hear the heated words of debate raging in the throne room where the commanders were meeting, straining over the calamitous sound of dozens of silver knights standing at attention as soon as Gwynathin stepped into the main hall. Setting aside his growing unease, Gwynathin gestured for Ornstein to step through the veil first, and went through to witness the expecting stares of all those gathered before him._

 _The Platinum Lords - commanders of each legion of the silver knights - stood to each side of the chamber, half of their eight members standing between the closest columns to the alcove in the back. Directly in front of him were the Knights of Gwyn; Gough, who nodded in greeting, Ciaran - who gave him a cursory glance before returning to her previous study - and Artorias, having removed his helmet for what must have been the first time in months. Other advisors such as Havel the Rock stood closer still to the alcove, at which stood Gwynevere, smiling oddly at her older brother, and Gwyndolin; evidently allowed reprieve from the isolation his father had kept him in since birth._

 _And, of course, there was Gwyn himself, seated on the throne and piercing Gwynathin with his eyes, which bore the light and strength of the sunlight he commanded._

 _Artorias was wearing an unreadable look - almost as if he were supremely distressed - and hurriedly whispered to Ornstein, who removed his helmet and asked again. When he registered the whispers, he stepped forward and knelt before the Lord of Sunlight. "Mine lord, I must respectfully argue against this course of action; with the Black Dragon Kalameet having been sighted closer and closer to thy keep with each passing day, we require all the advantages we can has't to-"_

 _"I am decided, dragonslayer." His eyes never leaving his firstborn's inquisitive look, he waved a hand towards the entrance of the hall. "I must beest alone, for thither is much to discuss with mine son."_

 _With varied degrees of reluctance, everyone else in the chamber made their way to the front screen wall dividing each main section of the keep. Artorias and Ornstein respectively nodded and bowed as they passed, whilst Gough offered his hand and Ciaran gave a quick curtsy. Gwynevere did not even glance in his general direction - he recognized the signs she made of her meditative exercises - and Gwyndolin paused, opened his mouth as if to say something, then sullenly gazed at the floor as he left._

 _The doors shut - just as Havel cast a silencing miracle - and Gwynathin was alone with Gwyn._

 _"I didst not see mine new brother or his caretaker on mine way in; is that gent well-"_

 _"Doth not distract me with small talk" Gwyn said, speaking with the surprisingly common tone which brokered no argument. After a moment of terse silence, his gaze softened. "Gwynethaire is well, even if 't be true his development of the sun's miracles compared to yours hath been... stunted."_

 _He nodded, standing straight and wisely deigning not to speak out of turn again. Whatever he had done, it had angered his father significantly, and it would not do well to test his wrath. Eventually, Gwyn sighed and rose from his throne, walking to one of the vaulted windows and gazing out into the plains beyond._

 _"The dragons art recovering." It was spoken with all possible implications; they were already attempting every strategy, using every resource, and yet their ancient foes were still surviving. "I trust you've recently seen those creatures in action yourself?"_

 _Gwynathin nodded. "Of course I have, father; I have been deployed with the finest of our warriors with incredible frequency the last few weeks, and-"_

 _"_ Doth _not forswear to me, son..." The Lord of Sunlight brought his hand down across his face, showing an exhaustion which had yet to touch the sinew in his limbs. "Ciaran informed me of a curious report from one of that lady's scouts recently; reporting the presence of a golden-clad warrior leading some dragons to safety." He turned, his body language as hard and indiscernible as stone. "How could thee doth this to us? How long have you participated in such actions?"_

 _The god of war was silent, and Gwyn laughed with bitterness to fill the resulting void. "Long enough, forsooth. I should has't..." He returned to his throne without seating himself in it, cupping his chin in thought. "Whither didst I wend wrong, raising thee?"_

 _Growling, Gwynathin stepped forward, sunlight unconsciously wreathing his armor in ornate patterns of light; if he had been caught, he would argue for his cause. "Clearly in every correct lodging, if 't be true thee findeth yourself questioning thy methods. The war is ov'r! The stone dragons can nev'r threaten us again, so wherefore hunt those folk as we doth?"_

 _He had been expecting a heated retort, not a crack of lightning and the splintering of a pillar upon his back. Supporting himself with his elbow, he glanced up to see Gwyn thundering towards him, lightning crackling from his form and lending his visage a menacing aura. "Didst I miss the signs that thee wast a simpleton!? The dragons fear death, as only immortal creatures doth, and would snuff the First Flame if 't they ever hadst the chance. The lives of our people, thy men, at risk, and yet thee speaketh with those folk of treatsies and aid!"_

 _"But where for hunt those folk!?" Gwynathin leaned against the broken remnants of the pillar for support, hand clutched against the sizzling mark left by his father. "We has't shown that they art no match for our might, so wherefore would they risk their existence again if 't be true presented with even the slightest opportunity?"_

 _Gwyn's wrath dissipated, and he looked to the floor as if in mourning. "If you must even entertain such a question, then there is no convincing you." He turned away from Gwynathin and folded his arms behind his back. "I has't already spoken with thy compatriots about this matter; as thou has't committed a grave treachery against thy kingdom and thy First Flame itself, I exercise mine authority as the bearer of the Soul of Light to sentence thee to exile."_

 _The blood flowed faster from his face than any wound could have caused. "Father, thou can't-"_

 _"Such a punishment incurs the stripping of thy deific status, and any inheritance thee may has't been legible for as the Lord of Sunlight's firstborn. As such, thee shalt henceforth beest nameless, and nev'r welcome within our ranks again." He returned to the throne, and sat down upon it. "A detachment of silver knights led by Sir Ornstein will escort you from the keep to the borders of our lands, where you shall go forth and remain an outcast forever."_

 _Gwynathin could already feel his strength beginning to waver; he should have expected this, but an irrational part of him cried out in indignation. "But punishing me wilt accomplish nothing! The dragons still seek a chance to recuperate, and has't no intention of-"_

 _"My most humble apology, is that a ghost I heareth? For I hath understood that mine son wast dead. All I see is a detestable criminal to has't justice served upon him."_

 _Cold acceptance stilled his rage, and without another glance he marched out of the keep, ignorant of the looks his former allies gave him and all but daring his escorts to keep up. As it was, the Nameless traitor was alone when he reached the arbitrary borders of Gwyn's kingdom, and stormed out into the unforgiving wilderness without waiting for an official to speak the damning words. As his anger depleted, he brought down his brisk pace to a more relaxed walk in an attempt to restore some semblance of self-control, and raised his fingers to his lips in order to let out a piercing whistle._

 _The sentries at camp-_ Gwyn's fortress _\- were bound to have heard his signal, but it would not matter; he would be long gone by the time they had mustered a response and ushered it out of the gates. A far-off cry gave its answer, and within half a minute a speck on the horizon had transformed into his irreplaceable companion. Thekwane seemed just as enthusiastic to be reunited with him as the Nameless, as it cried out with joy and hopped along the ground as it landed with speed. The Nameless closed the distance just as fast, grabbing onto Thekwane's beak and rubbing it with affection - additionally tracing the pitted, elongated scars that marred its pristine surface after he freed it from that gruesome dragon trap - even as it nuzzled his form._

 _He may have lost all of his friends and family, but at the very least the Nameless had Thekwane. He finally raised his head and stared into the great stromdrake's eyes, which both reflected and reciprocated the feelings of relief they shared. "Thee very much has't missed me, haven't thee?"_

 _Thekwane loosed an affirmative squawk, gently pushing him across the ground with one of its lower wings._

 _The Nameless nodded, his smile falling. "I fear that something lacking valor hath happened to me; I needeth thee to taketh me far from this lodging. Can thee doth that for me?"_

 _Without making a sound, the stormdrake lowered its neck so he could clamber on top. Nodding in thanks, the Nameless did just that, reaching down and scratching the area behind Thekwane's more prominent horns. Their business concluded - and the Nameless' previous ties severed - the pair lifted off and flew into the retreating fog, even as a host of dragonslayers approached with the sun on their backs._

* * *

The wind was cool, but refreshing; the sky was clear and blue, and the temple upon Archdragon Peak still stood tall and majestic with age.

Yet the Nameless King could not bring himself to care about such a sight. Any other day he would have asked Thekwane to pause in flight so he could admire the favorable conditions - perfect for a relaxing flight - but such a day as this demanded his full attention. The snake-men, his loyal caretakers after the extinction of the dragons, had summoned him to the temple, and could only mean one thing.

An aspirant had come to the temple, seeking the coveted path of the Stone Dragons and - through that - immortality.

It was such a rare occurrence that he had no qualms disregarding any other business he had to address such an issue. It was not as if there were many subaltern nobles clamoring for his attention, nor fledgling warriors that required a guiding hand to still their blades, and no family to spend time with-

His hand tightened its hold, then released it with an apology after Thekwane let out a caw of discomfort. It would do no good to dwell on the past, nor the path that had led him to the present; focus on the aspirant, and the bell that signaled their presence. Touching down at the gates of the temple - more out of a sense of courtesy than obligation - the Nameless King nodded in greeting to his servants, whom scrambled for a lever and opened the great steel gates of the temple forecourt.

He marched straight through - whilst a pair of larger snakemen escorted the stormdrake to its small retreat - as a sorcerer snaked her way to the king's side. "My lord, it pleases me to see you well. Would you like to-"

"I apologize for the lack of protocol in this meeting, but clearly something is awry if you are not informing me of the aspirant's... status..." He slowed to a stop, finally processing the strange sensation in the back of his head. It was complete and utter surprise, and led to his pondering the true nature of this "aspirant".

Before him, he beheld the rapidly-disintegrating remains of one of the truly ancient wyverns that called this mountain range home. It was not merely the sight of its flaccid body draped across the cobblestone that caught him off guard; it was the various marks and wounds still making their presence known, which were unmistakably left by a wielder of lightning. But it would have taken a warrior - or cleric, he had to admit - of prodigious skill to face and defeat such a mighty beast; in recognizing that, he decided it was absolutely necessary to meet this aspirant and determine their intentions.

He set off without a word, before the sorcerer grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop. "Not that way, my lord; the aspirant was grievously wounded in the confrontation. We took him to a secluded area to treat his wounds, yet we fear he will perish regardless."

The Nameless King nodded. "Thank you for updating me. Now, let's have a chat with this newcomer." Without any further obstruction, the king and his servant made their way through the temple complex, curtly addressing the flustered snakemen that passed them by as they set up scaffolding to repair recent damage to the structure. A pair of rock lizards scurried away from them as they rounded a ledge with a blocked-off tower, which a larger aspirant in familiar stone armor was attempting to clear the path to; it seemed that there had been much business being attended to while he was gone, as there was throughout the ages.

At last, they walked passed the great belfry of Archdragon Peak and walked past it without another glance, instead making for the room opposite their entrance. Two snakemen stood at guard at each side of the portal, which had been covered with a tattered cloth in a spirited attempt to create a clean environment, no doubt for more invasive operations. They stood at attention for the sorcerer, then fumbled with their weapons and stood straighter still when they recognized the imposing form of their lord and master, awkwardly stepping aside and lifting the cloth to allow them passage.

The Nameless King allowed the sorcerer entry first, and only heard about half of her explanation when he froze and mustered all the self control he had to keep silent.

The man before him was large for a human; he almost laid across the entire space cleared away, and his legs were even spread out to maintain the level distribution. Whatever equipment he carried on his back to the temple was absent, although the hideous wounds and aimless groping indicated that he was too delirious to notice or care. His skin - what little that was not covered in blood, at least - was pale, chiseled, and wrinkled, suggesting that he had lived most of his lengthy life in a suit of armor.

But none of those threw him off; a name surged to the tip of his tongue and demanded release, for even if Gwyn had stripped him of his identity, he would recognize that brilliant red plume of hair anywhere.

The broken body of Sir Ornstein tensed, and with great effort his eyes found themselves locked on the two new arrivals. "Pardon the state I am in; hadst I known I would beest visited by the very sir I sought, I would has't been just a bit more careful to keepeth myself presentable."

The Nameless King was too stunned to speak; after all this time, and now... Now he was glad he had taken to wearing a cowl which hid his features. Sensing his distress, the sorcerer stepped forward and took his place. "You sought our lord, the Nameless King? What business have you here, stranger?"

A sardonic, albeit weak chuckle sounded through the impromptu operating room, and threw the Nameless King further off-guard; both the emotion and action were as alien to his memory of the dragonslayer as the concept of death had been to the dragons. "Ah, I see thither hath been a misunderstanding. I am not hither for thy precious king" he began, eyes turning down in long-fostered grief - or was it exhaustion? "I am hither for someone whom wast once lief to me."

He snapped out of his reverie and gestured for the sorcerer to step aside, desperate to speak with his former student. "I see you are a warrior without peer, and are both valorous and resolute. I cannot promise much aid in your search, but what little I can, I shall."

It took several moments for the former knight of Anor Londo to respond; perhaps it was true that he would see his friend die after eons of isolation. The dragonslayer shut his eyes and took a shaky breath, trying and failing to lift himself from his resting place. "I suppose thee wilt needeth a description, then. Very well; I am looking for a most wondrous warrior, a master and patron of war without peer. that gent stoodeth as tall and regal as his background, yet would loosen his guard around close companions..." He trailed off, and recovered after a few moments, apparently unaware of his lapse. "His hair wast as radiant and fair as the celestial body which that gent hath called ancestor... His name wast... twas..." He frowned, although he was so weak at the time that his face bore no obvious change. "I apologize, t appeareth that... it hath been too long since I could recall his name... in-"

"Gwynathin."

Ornstein's head faced his as quickly as it could, eyes widened with shock as the Nameless King spoke again. "My name, old friend, is Gwynathin."

The old dragonslayer stared in silence, then grinned with joy as tears pricked at the wizened eyes of his friend. "So tis, brother... so tis..." His head slumped to the side, in time with the Nameless King's body as he grieved anew.

* * *

He could feel the great bell tolling in the far distance, many days away for any human traveler.

The Nameless King wasted no time grabbing what was required and mounting Thekwane - pausing only to offer his friend a treat in apology - before setting off for Archdragon Peak. The nature of his visit was different from previous ones; after the death of Ornstein, he was interred within the Walkway of the Ascendant with other champions of the dragons, and the grieving king ordered that the bell only be rung on the day of the dragonslayer's death. None had dared voice complaint; they could handle any new aspirants themselves, but were not willing to provoke their lord's freshly-unearthed wrath.

They would not have rung the bell against his will; someone must have breached the temple.

Whispering to his companion, Thekwane shrieked into the sky before them, causing what few clouds were present to crash over each other and shift into a roiling storm, surging forward like a tsunami towards the mountain-home they had found long ago. Advancing under its dark cover, the rulers of the sky swept into the airspace above the temple grounds, circling around to determine the situation from above; much to his dismay, the few remaining snakemen who tended to the temple had been slaughtered, and with it any hopes of preserving the temple complex for future aspirants.

But that was not the object of his attention; he could always have the scarce remaining aspirants take up such duties, but no one could wind back time and keep the bell from ringing. Grimly satisfied with his assessment, the Nameless King pointed towards the supernatural cloud cover where the offending intruder stood, weapon at the ready and scanning the architecture around them. It would do them little good; a true master of warfare realized the terrain was merely a tool, and that any who used it as a crutch would surely fail.

The stormdrake and forgotten firstborn descended from the sky, touching down upon the storm-ridden battleground that had taken over the temple. Scanning the renegade - their ornate halberd, leather armor with light plating, estus flask and miracle catalyst in hand - the Nameless King found himself sorely tempted to step off of Thekwane and face the warrior himself.

Unfortunately, they had made the grave mistake of ringing Ornstein's mortuary bell at the improper time; such a lethal transgression could not go unpunished.

Thekwane leaped forward, cutting off the warrior's escape, and the Nameless King called upon what little lightning he still had to empower his swordspear and slam it into the ground, flinging his foe backward head-over-heels halfway across the field. They picked themselves up and leaped out of the way, panicked by the charge that had barely missed them, and slashed at Thekwane's neck with a surprising balance of strength and dexterity. Noticing they had thrown off their balance with the blow, the Nameless King ushered his companion upwards, whom proceeded to breath a torrent of flame down upon the ground below.

Returning to solid, if temporary ground, the pair found themselves on the defensive as the unkindled one's assault resumed with earnest, trading swings of their weapons as Thekwane intervened where it could. They revealed the true extent of their arsenals as the battle progressed; the bow was revealed to be a retractable greatbow which was no less powerful than its original counterparts once it had been fully deployed, and the unkindled one used a bizarre technique in which they imbued each great arrow with miraculous energy before firing.

The Nameless King and his mount, conversely, showed the lethality of their specializations; claws, beaks, breaths of flame and devastating gusts of wind were used to show why Thekwane was additionally known by the title "king of the storm", harassing the renegade into positions which left them vulnerable for its companion to exploit. The King himself was more restricted in his attack, swinging when the opportunity presented itself and casting lightning from his perch.

But the battle was just too one-sided for his liking; for every blow the duo landed on their enemy, they would retreat after landing three of their own in order to drink from their estus flask, undoing more damage than they could inflict. "Thekwane, circle them." Understanding his intentions immediately, the stormdrake took to the skies, keeping the unkindled one well within sight of its rider as he prepared a spear of raw sunlight, holding it aloft to shock his foe before throwing it with all his might. Evidently they had underestimated the projectile they had evaded, as they cried out in alarm when it exploded and left them stunned; with the killing blow in sight, the Nameless King motioned for Thekwane to help the Ashen One live up to their title, and so it reared back before bathing their prone form in flames.

The two beings of legend stalked towards their fallen foe, watching as the flames consumed their fire and left them as smoldering cinders. Satiated by the death of the intruder, the Nameless King rested against Thekwane's neck, relieved that-

He was lurching backwards, as the stormdrake beneath him recoiled in pain.

Thekwane fell to the ground, already attempting to gain purchase on the volatile cloud-cover and struggling to right itself. Fear engulfed the Nameless King as he looked up to see the Unkindled One approach, halberd poised to take advantage of the reversal they had created. "Thekwane, I'll handle thi-"

It was as far as he managed before the Unkindled One stabbed it in the eye, then wrenched it out with brutal force.

Flung from his position, the Nameless King stared with horror as his lifetime companion stumbled, let out an agonized cry, then collapsed, unmoving. Unaware of the shockwave he released to cast aside the murderer, he walked in a daze towards the crumbling body, almost soundless in his approach. Upon coming within hand's reach, he gingerly laid a hand on one of Thekwane's horns, finally processing that his one last friend had been taken from him; one who had spited the memory of another, no less.

He raised his swordspear, poised to plunge into the brain of the stormdrake, and stabbed after only a moment of hesitation and a hiss of grief. The resolve that could only be found in desperate, causeless men took hold of his bosom, and when the hurricane of lightning dissipated he turned to face the one who had murdered Thekwane, raising his weapon and shaping the clouds to his will.

Demonstrating their characteristic dexterity, albeit with signs of weakness, the Unkindled One evaded each blast of wind from the Nameless King's stormspear, closing the distance as fast as they could and empowering their halberd with some kind of blazing tar in their approach. Noting their stance, he stepped to the side as they charged forward, then deflected the follow-up swing before thrusting, knocking them onto their stomach and repeating the attack with limited success.

They caught him off guard with a strategically-timed jab to his face with the halberd's hilt, incapacitating him and leaving him open for a devastating riposte. Knocked backwards by the attack and feeling his remaining energy rapidly dwindling to heal his injuries, he shifted into a devastating chain of slashes and stabs, using his power to take to the air and disorient the Unkindled One as best as he could. However - _somehow_ \- they were able to keep their responses collected and controlled, evading each of his increasingly frenzied strikes and retreating to heal injuries inflicted by those they didn't. The bubbling fury erupted into a barrage of rage-fueled attacks, desperate to annihilate the one who took away the last precious things left to his name.

Or, rather, his absence of a name.

With no more thoughts to spare for conservation of energy, the Nameless King elected to bring forth his most devastating weapons. As they approached, halberd raised in a cautious guard, the Nameless King stabbed his swordspear into the floor, depositing a crackling orb of lightning which split into several sparks and lanced outwards. As the Unkindled One threw themselves out of the path of the first, the Nameless King charged whilst coating his spear in lightning, impaling the hapless fool and overloading their nervous system before tossing them away.

And yet they still reached for their flask, slowly stumbling to their feet in wordless challenge. Deciding that the battle was dragging on far too long to offer a satisfying victory, the Nameless King stroked the air above his stormspear's blade, whispering incantations he had once thought forgotten to make lightning dance across the engraved metal. He paused, hoping to dupe the Unkindled One into taking the coming blow head-on, and like lamb to the slaughter they approached, transfixed by the crackling energy.

He held the swordspear up to the sky, calling down a lightning stake for the first time since the war against the stone dragons, and-

They rolled forward - losing their grip on their halberd as they did so - and before he could react, they snatched his weapon from his hands and ran it through his chest.

Gasping more from surprise than pain, the Nameless King sank to his knees, tugging weakly at the blade protruding through his torso as the Unkindled One returned with their halberd on their back. When did they...? It suddenly occurred to him that his wound was fatal - the blood loss must have been truly grievous to leave him with such sluggish thoughts - and indignant anger grappled with his oncoming demise for release into the world. Instead, he found himself addressing the murderer, staring at him with long-hollowed eyes. "Why... did you come... here... and slaughter..."

He fell, both his query and his name forever unremembered.

* * *

 **I honestly have mixed feelings about this chapter; while I imagined the second and third scenes in great detail, I don't think I did my impression of them justice. Overall, though, it turned out much better than I feared it would, so I'll leave it at that.**

 **I'm not sure how I feel about the constant delays with chapters, since I don't have university or work to occupy significant amounts of time. I do intend to write more often in the coming weeks, however, so I'll try and hold myself to that frankly-vague deadline. If I fail to honor my promise, I permit you guys to hunt me down and string me up in the name of the Darkmoon.**

 **Anyway, as for future chapters I'm going to compose a few more requests before revising earlier chapters. Keep an eye out for this bunch; they're rather testy, so keep away from the abyssal knight, the twisted... thing near him, and that black dragon flying around the hotel belfry. Do that, and you should hear their riveting tales soon enough!**

 **Thanks for checking this out, and I hope you're enjoying it!**

 **P.S. Trying out a new AN style to distinguish it from the rest of the chapter, let me know what you guys think.**

 **P.P.S. Just shy of 7,000! Wow, maybe I can start writing crappy novels to up my game!**


	17. Window 17 - Artorias, Wolf of the Abyss

The room, whilst designed to let in as much light as possible, was filled with an impregnable darkness for the figure within to most faithfully dance through their forms. It was, as far as he was concerned, the truest test of a martial artist - to successfully execute your fighting style at your absolute best when all other control had been removed. The figure was certainly moving with an aura of familiarity; their unorthodox flips and twirls were performed with confident disregard for any potential obstacles, all the better for focusing on empowering the following slashes and stabs that epitomized his signature style.

Eventually, the figure came to a rest; someone was watching them. Panting and sweating from both the exertion of their exercises and the shock of discovering an eavesdropper, the figure hefted their greatsword and turned to behold the colossal doors to the training hall, cracked open just enough to let a denizen of Anor Londo past. Seeing no one waiting, they turned to continue when the curtains covering each window were suddenly retracted, catching them off guard and providing the harmony for a sole, disappointed melody.

"You are certainly putting much effort into mastering the art, but you're putting far too much force behind each attack." Putting a hand to the tip of his helmet and glancing down in thought, Sir Artorias found himself once more questioning the futility of his newfound desire to impart his renowned combat skill to others.

Even though Lord Gwyn had warned him about the difficulty of his fighting style - a warning Artorias never heeded himself - he was sure that, with time, he could take the most adaptable of the Silver Knights and impart his own legacy onto the future hands of Anor Londo. Unfortunately, such foreboding words had proven to be true; despite the remarkable versatility and dexterity of those who volunteered for his tutelage, they had failed to truly reconcile their previous training with that the Wolf Knight sought to drill into them. Reluctantly, he began to recognize the likely necessity of teaching one of the aspirant silver knights in his combat form instead of a veteran; while he had no issue with working from scratch on its own, the time it would take...

He sighed. "You've done well. Run through your warm-down exercises and you can go." He turned on the spot and made for the exit, listening to his most recently failed student ease their muscles whilst he himself practiced on the move, spinning his wrist so it flowed with the hilt of air he grasped. He would have merrily marched his entire way through the keep if someone hadn't grabbed his arm and halted him, snapping him out and prompting him to cease his motions.

"Out so soon? I would have thought you would be playing games with that pup of yours if you were not still dancing your way into a stroke."

Artorias glanced to his side and communicated his grin to the woman beside him the only way he could: by wrapping his arms around her - with the intent of wrapping his arms around her waist - and spinning the both of them. Chuckling at the haste with which she stiffened in annoyance, he let her down and took a step back. "Her name is _Sif_ , I would have you know, and you can't lecture me about the clearly false flaws in my art when you yourself are called 'The Whirlwind of Fire'."

Giving him a critical glare - one which he could perceive even through her spartan mask - Ciaran sighed and let him have his fun. "Oh, how you have bested me with your unequivocal logic. It is to my _astonishment_ that our Lord has not declared you the royal scholar by now." She removed her mask, revealing ice-pale skin and a face which bore a startling likeness to her uniform's visage, now written with concern and companionship. "It seems, however, that he would not need to grant such a position to have you sequestered in dark rooms for days."

The Wolf Knight winced, rubbing the back of his head - right in the spot where his cowl was thinnest - and slumped his shoulders. "Well, you know how it is; someone has to train the new recruits for when we are no longer fit for service, and I supposed that sorting that matter out swiftly would be-"

Ciaran grabbed his arm once more, and pulled him into a hug, grinding both his speech and his thoughts to a halt - no doubt exactly as she intended. Stroking his back, she leaned into him and whispered. "I miss him too, Artorias, but no amount of swordplay and reminiscence will bring him back."

He stiffened, then relaxed into her hug, then stiffened with grief again. No word from the scouts, no word from Gwyndolin's Blades of the Darkmoon, no word from _anyone_ as to Gwyna- _the traitor's_ whereabouts. "I know, I know, but... I can't bring myself to prance through the halls of this keep as if he still stands among us. I just..." He groaned and removed himself from Ciaran's form, his hand trailing down her arm to keep some contact maintained. "How's the good captain? I can't imagine..."

The answer he received was a grim expression. "He's suffered even more so than you; he spends every waking moment in the field, patrolling, commanding, or otherwise burning whatever personal connections he has. He refuses to give himself time for anything else." She hugged herself with one arm, looking out one of the many windows which seemed to populate every room and hallway of the keep. "At least Smough has seen reason enough to keep his distance. He may not be overly fond of any of us, but... it's considerate of him."

"Is that so?" Artorias made a noncommittal grunt. "Perhaps we should make him an honorary Knight of Gwyn, given his delicate traits only seem to manifest otherwise when preparing one of his wretched soups."

The Lord's Blade winced. "Perhaps that should not be the subject of jests; the executioner has been increasingly vigilant since that day, almost as if he senses an opening to exploit with the completion of his duties." She gestured for him to walk with her, resuming their trip through the belly of the keep. "In any case, seeing the Captain may do him some good; we could all use a comforting presence in these times."

Grunting in agreement, Artorias strolled out into the freshly-constructed bridge leading from the keep to the rest of the surrounding area. The bright and blooming city, where the Great Lords had supposedly discovered the First Flame, was named Anor Londo to exalt the already radiant heirloom of the Lord of Sunlight. Politely nodding at standing knights - whom briefly snapped salutes before returning to their statuesque stances - and opting for silent contemplation, the pair reached and followed the enormous wall surrounding the city of the gods until they spied a small group atop the greater crenelations.

From the passage up to the top of the walls, they could just discern the torso of a golden-clad figure, who stood amidst two pairs of Anor Londo's more common foot soldiers. As they approached, he gestured with his spear to the horizon beyond the walls, the evening sun catching on his cross spear and imparting the visage of a god appraising his domain. Such an image was shattered when he paused, dismissed the two pairs in opposite directions across the wall, and gestured without looking at his compatriots for their presence. Their approach was cautiously swift and received by the sight of the warrior stabbing his cross spear into the battlements.

"You two are the last people I expected to be here." As his character best exemplified, Ornstein wasted no time with pleasantries, immediately probing for the business at hand. "Has Lord Gwyn summoned for us?"

Ciaran bowed respectfully. "He has not; we came of our own vol-"

"If that is so, then you are not needed here and wasting all of our time." He pointed back at the stairway, then ripped his spear out of the ground and gave it a flourish; it seemed he was not even in the mood for familiar faces. "Begone with you, for I have many duties and many trainees to attend to."

"With all due respect, Captain, I already attempted such excuses with Ciaran here. They didn't work out." The Wolf Knight stepped forward, only for the arm he placed on his shoulder to be brushed off by the ill-tempered, armored hand of the Dragonslayer. "We have been granted leave for our efforts against the stone dragons, as well as... recent developments. There are better ways to spend our peace-time than needlessly hone your craft and future warriors on your lonesome."

Ornstein removed his helmet - perhaps realizing that he would not be able to return to patrolling with the most chatty member of his squad needling him with questions - and fixed him with a judgmental, green-eyed glare. "As I would believe you are intimately familiar with. Tell me, is your notion of 'peacetime productivity' rolling in some flower-covered prairie, dining and pleasuring yourself with certain company, whilst _droves_ of our Lord's people cower in fear of-"

"That's enough." Ciaran forced his jab to silence, hoping to prevent another argument between the two warriors' ideologies from breaking out. "What he is _trying_ to say, Captain is..." She appeared to fumble over herself, trying to find a tactful way to extend their offer of companionship. Artorias felt inclined to take over, but left her to her own devices; she was never much for words, which would not do if she hoped to have any company when she couldn't hold a conversation with any of her direct compatriots.

Well, anyone besides him. He hadn't missed the blush that spread across her features until Ornstein's insult made its target clear; sometimes he wondered if she grew up in a nest of her emblematic animal, away from the allure of her own species.

He'd drifted into a river of thought again, and at an inopportune time; whatever she had said in his absence had angered the Dragonslayer significantly. "I _know_ it's not fair for us, but I don't _care_. Would you have me abandon my responsibilities like a child!?" He dragged his hand down his face and turned away, walking towards the smaller battlements facing the city and staring out towards the keep. "He... he taught me to never accept the end of a mission as my duty being successfully fulfilled. That I had to be noble- nay, I had to remain ever-vigilant, if I wanted to truly preserve the joy and security of those we protect." Even with his face hidden from view, the pair could tell how distraught he was by the desperation with which he gripped the barrier, shoulders taut with anguish. "I must... I must honor him. I cannot think of betraying his memory by leaving my post unattended."

Artorias paused, stepped forward to offer his leader a comforting hug, then restrained himself in giving a nod. "I understand. But he was close to you - don't give me that look, you never hid it well - and he would not want you grinding yourself into dust like this. Just..." He didn't know what could convince Ornstein to come with them, take some much-needed reprieve from the stress of their positions.

Fortunately, Ciaran intervened. "Believe it or not, I did not seek out Artorias to do with him as I wished-" She continued in spite of his sputtering. "Nor did I come to cause you distress. Gough was preparing a meal for the four of us, and wished to extend invitations for you. We will not force you to come, but he's preparing one of his favorites; the love and quality he puts into those dishes may do you well."

The Dragonslayer stared at the ground, conflict radiating from his expression until he slowly exhaled and walked towards the main walkway of Anor Londo, cross spear hefted by his shoulder at the hilt. They watched him descend the stairs - shoulders stuck somewhere between defiant and defeated - until Ciaran caught the mischievous glint in his eyes. "Not a word from you." She muttered, turning away and dragging him onward to join their captain.

Clearly, she hoped that he had missed the second blush to manifest just as the encounter ended. Unfortunately, she had failed, although he decided it would be prudent not to comment.

The trio of knights wasted no time returning to the keep of Anor Londo, forgoing the doors to the great hall and opting for one of the side entrances leading to the underbelly of the keep. From there, they moved upwards - passing by Smough's chambers as he rested - and eventually found one of the kitchens set aside for the advisers and military confidants of the Lord of Sunlight. Opening the door, they were struck by the sight and smell of a kitchen in typical, controlled chaos, presided over by the hulking form of the Knights' archer.

Hawkeye Gough turned, clad in comparatively light clothes and wearing a smile as warm as the flame with which he cooked. "Friends, welcome! Your timing is impeccable; it is almost ready!"

The three other Knights of Gwyn found themselves seats with varying degrees of awkwardness, waiting as Gough hummed to himself whilst dishing up the meal. "Forgive me if you find it unpleasant; it is a new recipe I fell in love with, introduced by a visitor from the east. However, I am sure you will enjoy it! I have modified it with some more familiar herbs to dull the sting."

He passed it around amidst comments about both the dish and the visitor, each and every one of them eager to forget the events of recent weeks and return to some semblance of normality. Artorias took in the scene before him; Ornstein quietly eating his curry whilst Ciaran's argument with Gough carried out without much hostility. Committing every detail to memory, he determined that - even without the formative pillar of their group - the Knights of Gwyn would remain tall and proud.

* * *

Many of the soldiers who fought under the Sun's banner succumbed to intense trauma experienced in battle, and rarely found solace in the peace that followed. Artorias had commanded many of them himself; it had harrowed him to see them struggle with missing components of body, mind, and soul that none could hope to replace. In particular, many recounted tales of being haunted by the voices of those who both lived and died on the battlefield, left themselves screaming with terror as they were rudely awoken.

Sitting where he was now, within eyesight of the sealed, wrought-iron gates, he began to wonder if what he heard now was in any way comparable to their suffering.

To the growing trepidation of the surviving forces camped within the Valley of Drakes, the screams of those trapped in New Londo only grew in number and severity, despite the locking of the city gates by the legendary Sealers and subsequent flooding of the newborn ruins. Many had been vocal in expressing their desire to save the stranded citizens of Lordran's shining star - Ornstein among them, naturally - but the Lord of Sunlight's decision had been final.

With heavy loads on their shoulders, as well as heavier hearts, the forces of Anor Londo abandoned the city to its fate, terrified people slowly drowning if they weren't slaughtered by the corrupted banner of New Londo. No one wanted to spare a thought for those who were spirited away by portals into the Abyss, whom surely were being subjected to unimaginably terrible destinies.

Artorias had to expend few of his thoughts to piece together exactly what awaited them in the chasm both below and removed from the world.

"You seem particularly distraught, Artorias." With a start, the Wolf Knight noticed the presence of both Gough and Ciaran, whom stood some distance away and stared respectively with sympathy and concern. "You may not be as aware of your surroundings as I, but you would never notice any approaching figure so late."

Artorias sighed, unconsciously fidgeting with his left hand. "I apologize, I... I'm just coming to terms with this disaster." He realized that his temperament was doing absolutely nothing to assuage the fears his comrades held within, and so he made to stand and accompany them to wherever relief was needed. If these ghosts would not banish themselves, he would merely have to distract himself as best he could.

He was stopped by Ciaran's hand, keeping him seated while she glanced at Gough. "If you could please allow us some privacy? I wish to speak with Artorias alone."

Gough paused, scanning the faces of his compatriots in front of him, before smiling with as much goodwill as he could muster and walking off. Barely a moment had passed, the Wolf Knight just opening his mouth to speak, before he was pulled into the embrace of the Lord's Blade and found himself resting his head against her shoulder. It must have looked as uncomfortable as it felt, as within moments the two Knights of Gwyn edged away from each other, glancing at whatever took their fancy.

Ciaran broke the silence first. "How is Sif? Was this not her first...?"

The Wolf Knight shook his head, cracks appearing in his nonchalant facade. "She was, but... as soon as the corrupted knights showed up, I sent her away. I knew that she could not best them as she was; indeed, I initially struggled with them myself."

She hummed in sympathy, having also been stunned by the ferocity and speed with which the newly-christened "Darkwraiths" fought. They were no longer human - or, rather, they were more than human - after having cast their lot in with the Abyss. "It is a miracle indeed that they were overcome at all." She glanced down at his left hand, which he was still fussing with as if he were cleaning it. "I suppose that ring you are tending to held a role to play?"

Artorias flinched; he knew it would have to be discussed eventually - if not the Knights, then Gwyn himself - but he would have preferred that it occur at a later time. It did not help his mood that the voices seemed to grow further agitated almost simultaneously with him. "Yes, it... I..."

"Artorias, look at me." Somehow, none of the strategies he had employed to distract himself worked quite as well as Ciaran's request, as he found himself fixated by her gaze almost immediately. "Whatever transpired in there, I can feel your soul is untouched, and your discomfort suggests whatever you did has troubled you. You will not drive me - any of us - away, no matter what exactly you did to violate your integrity."

He paused, long enough that he could see the signs of Ciaran's patience giving way to her concern. Inhaling deeply, he let his tumultuous thoughts pour out _like the river that had flooded New Londo_. "I managed to fight my way through the monsters towards the source from whence they came, but... I couldn't even touch it without this." He held his hand up, looking anywhere but the woman inspecting his ring. "I had to form a covenant with the creatures of the Abyss. Now I can safely traverse and interact with that wretched domain, although-"

A piercing shriek sent him reeling from his seat, and he had unsheathed half of his sword before he realized there was nothing next to him, save for an alarmed Ciaran. Panting with shock, he stood up and brushed himself off, staring at the space where he had imagined the scream had come from. "-that is my price. I can hear them... Ciaran, I can hear every poor soul trapped in the Abyss. Their screams, they..."

Ciaran grabbed his head by both cheeks and gently pulled him into a kiss. Whatever composure he had left evaporated in an instant, and his arms shook as he held her close. For some moments they remained there, the Wolf Knight clutching onto the Lord's Blade as if she were an anchor, whilst she rubbed his back with soothing motions and waited for him to pull himself together. It took moments like this - like when Sif had been found in the forests beyond Anor Londo, freezing and at death's door - that reminded him why he so dearly loved Ciaran. She could be markedly aloof compared to her companions, and her first impression had been somewhat hostile - given that her position was earned after literally fighting every other Knight of Gwyn - but when he was wounded in ways other could not heal...

...she was there. He was there when she needed him, and she was there when he needed her. There was nothing else to say.

Eventually, the two Knights of Gwyn removed themselves from each other's embrace, retreating within themselves to ponder the situation. Once more, Ciaran's voice dismissed the enshrouding quiet, her tone still warm, but sterner. "You should speak with Lord Gwyn of this matter; I find it hard to imagine that the treasuries of Anor Londo lack the means to treat your ailments."

He wanted to scoff - speaking of an unholy covenant with the antithesis of Fire as 'ailments' - but restrained himself. Still, his stress lent his mind a far shorter fuse than he wished, and so had no patience for even tentative optimism. "And if they don't?"

Ciaran's response was just as swift, just as soft, and just as unbelievably serene as the last. "Then we can find one; surely Duke Seath can find some time away from his research to conjure a solution."

Artorias bitterly considered giving voice to a scathing retort - the voices certainly encouraged it, as they were desperate for _some_ release from their terrible limbo - but ultimately decided against it. Nevertheless, a distraction was in order, and he could think of a few things to take his mind off of both the disaster and the side effects of the covenant. Standing up, he stretched his weathered muscles and extended a hand to Ciaran. "I suppose, but sitting here and brooding about these tragedies is going to solve nothing. Come, let's find us a distraction from our worries."

Ciaran studied him - _really_ studied him, the same way a predator would fix its attentions on its hapless prey - before shaking her head and accepting his hand. "I will not let this go, Artorias, and I expect you not to do the same." She dusted herself off, then glanced up with a warm, albeit weak smile. "But... I suppose we have earned some time away from such troubles."

Grateful that she was willing to offer him time and comfort, Artorias hooked his arm around hers and began walking towards the command tents of Anor Londo's surviving army. He knew that his demons - such delightful new companions as they were - would inevitably manipulate their inaction to their advantage in the long term, but he knew that some time with good company around a warm fire would do well to dispel them in the short term. Their service would ensure that they never left any of them, but he found such a truth hard to believe whilst talking with his love beyond the fire.

* * *

All it had taken was a single step into the sanctuary, and he could already tell there truly was something extremely wrong with the entire town.

Unlike with decrepit towns such as the Undead Burg - already housing a great cause of concern for the nobility of Anor Londo - it wasn't even something in the air that suggested foul plans were in motion. Such a thing would imply that the corruption could me smelt, or even perceived in the traditional sense. That which had threatened the people of Oolacile showed no signs at the borders; different tales had been recounted of the town center, but the corruption had yet to advance from beyond.

He could still discern it, though. The few remaining voices of New Londo's victims told him of it when they weren't retreating into the Abyss and fretting over their gradual, inevitable erasure. Instead of a 'sensory' sensation, it was a... _wrongness_ ; something which clawed feverishly at his gut feeling.

He didn't like it, clenching his great sword tightly.

He glanced behind him long enough to check on Sif - shaken, no doubt by the same aura of uncanniness, but otherwise resistant - and pressed on, eager to determine as to what extent the reports were true. They passed a trio of slumbering beasts, bizarre in their hybrid nature, and continued onward into a small enclave nearly consumed by nature. Such decay, whilst not of the rumors' telling, was still alarming, which only exacerbated his surprise when his name was called.

"Sir Artorias! Oh, thou art a most welcome sight!"

Whipping around and barely reigning in his impulse in time to keep his blade from slicing her in half, Artorias' panic was immediately superseded by bewilderment as he realized the woman was a giant mushroom. She slowly leaned to and fro, small eyes staring at him in unmistakable relief whilst he stared in utter confusion. Sensing his reaction, the mushroom immediately bowed. "My apologies, my lord; Perhaps I should have announced mine presence sooner. Alas, circumstance demanded that I hide mineself my own safety."

The Wolf Knight recovered his composure with commendable swiftness, stepping forward and bowing. "And my own apologies, for reacting to you so negatively." He waited for her to continue, and when no such response was forthcoming he elected to start asking questions. "Who are you, and what happened?"

A crestfallen, almost forlorn look sprawled itself over her features. "My name is Elizabeth, and our folly has led to your presence here. A scouting party a week ago returned with jubilated spirits, claiming to have discovered an inexhaustible source of the 'Humanity' the humans needed to survive. They refused to reveal the source of their information, but my own knowledge suggested that only a truly ancient being could have known of this source; that accursed beast below the earth."

Artorias hissed, quickly concluding that the only "being" that could have possibly visited Oolacile at such an age was a primordial serpent. He had never trusted them before - catching more than a few scathing glances from those creatures aimed at the holy Fire Keepers - but for one to be seen shortly before a catastrophe compared to New Londo? He would have to confront Frampt about such a matter; his loyalty to Lord Gwyn was unquestionable, and only had the interests of the Flame at heart. For now, he had to focus on this beast Elizabeth spoke of. "What is this beast you speak of?"

If a mushroom could ever be capable of communicating a sneer of disdain, she must have perfected such a technique long ago. "They called it "the Primeval Man"; the supposed ancestor of all modern humans. Their source suggested they could siphon Humanity from its resting form, safe from any conceivable consequence, but when they attempted to begin..."

He almost pestered her into continuing but was interrupted by a flash of horror in the old woman's eyes. "It awoke; it _slaughtered_ Oolacile's most elite defenders, and... Oh, many invoked the Flame for salvation." She paused, collected herself, and appeared to force herself into continuing. "The Abyss - the very same one you sealed in New Londo - was unleashed upon the town... at that _monster's_ command."

He knew there was no time to return to Anor Londo with the true threat posed to Oolacile, and certainly no time to waste considering his options. "Where is it? I will face the monster myself, and end the spread of the Abyss."

"The Abyss is beginning to taint the surrounding area, and is even now sinking what remains of Oolacile into the earth. Go into the town ruins, and follow the descending path; it will lead you into the depths whence the monstrosity lies in wait." Elizabeth nodded to Sif, who was seated and waiting patiently for the order to advance. "Leave your companion here, with me; they will not survive if they follow you."

The Wolf Knight shook his head, reaching a protective hand for Sif's back. "She has been trained to fight as I have; we can protect each other."

Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, but whatever words she spoke were ignored as Artorias and Sif began their trek into what remained of Oolacile, an implacable pair of implacable, steel-hearted warriors unwilling to fail their mission. It did not take them long to reach the outskirts of the town, for which Artorias almost wished they were later in their arrival; the rumors, were false, for what had befallen the township was too horrific to compare with even New Londo.

The unease he'd felt entering the sanctuary returned like a tornado after a storm, and more than once he found himself staring at the dark purple sludge and mist permeating the many askew buildings that remained standing. Perhaps more unsettling were the survivors, who had been warped into twisted monstrosities that gibbered and shrieked even when they were blissfully ignorant of his presence. The survivors of New Londo muttered in agreement, too far removed to feel, but still capable of recognizing the horror that had unfolded before them, even as they were cut down by the blades of the wolves.

The emergency gradually grew increasingly severe the further down into the pit they traveled. For a fleeting moment Artorias found himself wondering if perhaps this is what the Stone Dragons felt long ago; skipping into one of the Archtrees out of curiosity, only to discover disheveled husks that screeched and peeled away their scales, introducing them to the concept of terror and death. Dismissing those thoughts, he returned to lucidity as Sif nuzzled his leg, trying to direct his attention towards a dark portal at the end of a concourse lined with headless statues. The Dark was practically clogging the air - even if it could not be seen - and Artorias found he could understand the New Londo survivors more clearly than in the many months since; he began to wonder if perhaps this was too dangerous a venture for Sif, and that Elizabeth was right.

The wolf in question whined, questioning his introspection, and he brushed such concerns aside. The old being knew where the pair was; if she believed either of them were in danger, she could call upon Ciaran's allies from the forests to his aid in moments. Resolved, Artorias ushered for Sif to follow him into the black void, great-shield raised protectively in cautious anticipation of an ambush.

Nothing - absolutely nothing, not even the First Flame or Ciaran at his side - could have prepared him for the sight of those eldritch beings stretching out towards the horizon. It was what he recognized them as; _Humanity_ , raw and alive and numbering in the thousands, at least. Sif growled, but stayed put, seemingly caught off-guard by Artorias' stunned silence. If this is what was promised to the people of Oolacile, what changed them into the twisted perversions of man he slew...

...he could not allow any word of this to reach the ears of Anor Londo's human and undead residents. As soon as this 'primeval man' was defeated and stopped from spreading the Abyss any further, he would petition for Gwyn to destroy the area and bury this entrance into the Abyss with rubble and lightning. If they failed to keep such a relative treasure trove from reaching the awareness of humanity... he did not want to consider the implications. Artorias dismissed his myriad of speculations and plans; none of them would amount to anything if he failed to stop the Abyss from spreading.

Wanting to avoid any likelihood of confronting the monstrously-large sprites below, Artorias and Sif carefully edged along a ledge to the other end of the chasm, the New Londo survivors uncharacteristically silent as the pair traversed the old home of the Dark. It was not long after their entrance - fumbling through the oppressively shadowed cavern - when they heard what sounded like a woman sobbing in unbridled terror. He should have restrained himself, despite the hollow dread he had felt ever since setting foot in the township; he risked the mission- the safety of the world by sparing any thought for those who had been consumed in Oolacile.

And yet - within moments of the woman's sobs echoing into silence - Artorias charged towards the ledge and leaped into the darkness below.

It grew unusually quiet as he fell, to the point that the crash of his armor against the ground drowned out Sif's own landing, as well as any other sounds nearby. He slowly rose from his position, scanning the horizon around him, when he caught notice of a pathetically pale figure curled up on the ground. Immediately racing to their side, he set aside his sword and gingerly cradled her head, Sif standing guard as he slowly ushered her awake. He began to offer soothing assurances, but was cut off by a whimpering moan.

"What... are thou doing here?" She shivered as she cut him off. "Ma- Manus is... he is here..."

Senses and voices screaming in alarm, Artorias hefted his sword and spun backward with his shield raised in one fluid motion, scanning the area for this 'Manus', and yet he could see nothing in the encroaching darkness. The rapidly-manifesting New Londo survivors, however, were quick to identify the beast of the Abyss, and it took only a moment for the Wolf Knight to follow their line of sight and bear witness to the horrific Primeval Man.

Without any conscious decision or further prompting, Artorias crouched and focused on the abomination before him, quickly determining physical weaknesses and surging forward, his greatsword held at his side like a lance. At the last moment, the Wolf Knight somersaulted over the Father of the Abyss' colossal form - slashing at the cluster of bone-like protrusions on Manus' back - whilst Sif darted between his legs and spun around twice, cutting deep into his legs. Roaring, the Primeval Man thrashed in a feral rage, scoring only glancing hits on Artorias and Sif even as he demolished the ground in front of him, eventually realizing that the trespassers were somewhere else and pivoting on the spot, mouth open and unleashing a shower of spittle and howl of rage.

Artorias spared a cursory glance for his partner. "You know the drill, move!" The two wolves danced around Manus, evading his wild blows with perfect acrobatics in order to disorient the beast, leaving him defenseless for their slashes and stabs. In the midst of one of their lightning raids, the Primeval Man made an uncharacteristically quiet sound - almost like the muttering of those lost to the Abyss - and planted his catalyst hilt-first in the ground, summoning a terrible hail of raw Dark. Hissing, Artorias pulled away and leaped towards Sif, clutching the silver pendant tightly and shielding them from the oncoming dark orbs.

The ringing sound of dark meeting holy light abated, and the two wolves barely leaped away before Manus slammed his mutated left hand on top of the spot they stood on. They were forced to keep spinning and leaping around the arena as Manus repeatedly swung and slammed his staff and hands into the broken stone, shouting in an indignant rage with each attack. Artorias found himself staring, realization dawning on him as he watched the Father of the Abyss batter the area in front of him without restraint as if believing he could defeat his attackers through sheer willpower.

"Sif, he's blind! Dart in and out, and we can do this!" Sif nodded, charging forward and slashing at Manus' legs as she passed, reaching the other side as his mutated arm bent impossibly to reach behind him and claw at his blind spot. Artorias sped forward, jumping and flipping in midair to drag his sword along Manus' back, rolling away in time to watch Sif stab at Manus' mouth-

\- and be caught off-guard by Manus' retaliation, knocking Sif away with the head of his staff as it vomited a torrent of Dark.

The Wolf Knight stabbed his greatsword into the ground, using it as an axle to spin and direct his shield into deflecting the killing blow meant for Sif. Growling with anger, Artorias unleashed a flurry of slashes and stabs on the Primeval Man, whom screeched and clutched at his ruined hand whilst backing off. Artorias returned as quickly as he could to Sif, who lay whimpering in pain, her sword forgotten at her side. "Sif, I'm so sorry, I-" Alarm drove his muscles into action, scooping up Sif in the crook of his shield-arm and rolling away from Manus' staff demolishing the column beside them.

Artorias wasted no more time; he set down Sif, left his great shield with her, and snapped a homeward bone in her paw, activating the pendant and stroking Sif's nuzzle. "I'm sorry, but you need to go. Do not wait for me!"

With a forlorn howl, Sif vanished, and Artorias stood alone against a monster of the Abyss once more. Artorias rested his sword against his shoulder and sprinted towards the Father of the Abyss, sliding under his thrashing arm and hooking his sword into Manus' leg, using the momentum to grab onto the thrashing arm and throw himself onto Manus' back. He considered stabbing at the bone-covered surface, instead choosing to catch his breath whilst the Father of the Abyss struck at the protrusions and recoiled with a yelp of pain each time. His muscles were moving with uncomfortably familiar effort; if he did not finish this soon, he would surely die, and the Abyss would spread unimpeded.

He felt Manus' arm grab his sword-arm - _stupid, stupid, **stupid**_ \- and barely had time to steel himself for an impromptu meeting with the ground before every bone in his arm shattered.

Artorias screamed, then was cut off by his being thrown onto the ground, forcing the air out of his body and leaving him gasping in agony. He caught a glimpse of his sword cast aside - strewn amidst the rubble left behind by his ill-fated duel - and attempted to crawl over to it before being pinned in place by a clawed hand, which turned him over and left him staring into the grinning maw of Manus. Artorias wanted to do many things - apologize to Ciaran, apologize to Sif, come to terms with his death - but was interrupted by the sight of Manus' mutated arm being lowered towards him, palm opening to reveal a black void darker than the Abyss.

Before he could so much as utter a sound of protest, his helmet was ripped off and the hand enveloped his head, the void spitting out a miasma of evil energy and forcing itself into his mouth. He attempted to scream, but the energy wormed itself into every open space within him, filling him with malice and rage and dark and-

* * *

When he came to, the first thing he recognized was the former human impaled on his sword.

His mind started - _where am I what happened something's wrong_ \- but his body didn't follow properly, turning his reaction into a slow rise from his position. Every movement seemed slower than it should be, but even his hastened thoughts could not determine why; the Dark had...

It had scattered his mind, leaving him self-aware and in control, but ruining his focus and agility. Why couldn't he...?

"Artorias?"

His gaze snapped towards the source - insofar as the speed with which he moved could be described as "snapping" - and the already sluggish pace of his heart came to a total stop. An Undead stood at the entrance to one of Oolacile's largest arenas, mysteriously decrepit and covered with the Abyss' taint, accompanied by a giant of a man and a fearsome woman, every one of them staring with different shades of horror. He leaned forward, squinting; something was familiar about them, but he couldn't...

He saw a boulder hefted to the side of the entrance, and noticed one of the trio breathing heavily. "You are strong, human..." He found himself needing to take a breath and paused to allow himself such a luxury. "Surely your kind are more than pure Dark." He considered the three strangers, and realized that they could not certainly be what they seemed; perhaps they were merry friends unaware of the dangers below. "Whatever you are, stay away-"

An irrational bout of rage overtook him, and a pained growl forced his mouth open, causing the three figures to recoil. One of them stepped forward and reached out toward him in spite of his oncoming wrath. "Artorias, it is me, can't you..." Their voice cracked, but otherwise, their composure remained strong. "It is _me_."

Those words meant nothing to him, nor their face and their companions. The only thing that he could recall with any clarity was his mission - find Manus, kill him, stop the Abyss - and yet his memory continued to poke and prod at the sight before him, recognizing her significance but failing to reconcile it with what he could recall. His anger simmered, perhaps realizing that he couldn't be angry with-

"Ciaran." It left his mouth before he could stop it, and he tried to bring his free hand to cup her cheek before he remembered what Manus had done to him. "Ciaran, I-" A sob escaped him, and his temper flared for just a moment at his inadequacy. "What are you doing here?" He glanced behind her, and whilst the human was no more recognizable than before he was startled by the other. "Gough, what happened to..." _Your eyes_ , he wanted to say, but his lungs struggled to bring in air that was not as urgently needed as they believed, whilst Gough stared sympathetically at his distraught compatriot.

"Shh, be still, please. We are here, we will help you." As brightly optimistic as the Sun, as ever. Something was well and truly wrong, he could feel... He gently pushed Ciaran away, desperately attempting the same with what scattered thoughts he could put together, even as the Dark within him sought to consume him; that needed to be explained first.

"You cannot; soon I will be consumed, by them... the Dark." As if to support his argument, the Dark surged forth from his mouth, and his arching back was all that kept it from asphyxiating Ciaran. When it dissipated, he coughed violently and growled in barely suppressed rage, but he forced it down as deep as he could manage; if he did not warn them what had done this to him, they would never stop him. His attention was seized, however, by what must have been a hallucination moving towards him - each foot set down as if making ready to flee at the first sign of danger - and he kneeled down to stroke its fur.

"Ah, Sif, there you are..." She's safe, everything is fine- He recoiled with a gasp in tandem with Sif, prompting a whine of distress at his unusually Dark touch. His fist smashed the ground unbidden, and he was too preoccupied with his uncontrollable terror to notice Ciaran and Gough's pained expressions. "Forgive me, for I have availed you nothing-" Phantom pains along his broken arm nearly made him sprawl across the ground, instead prompting a hideous snarl, _there's no time left none at all_.

"The one who spreads the Abyss - Manus" A gasp of pain. "...must... be stopped."

He froze; everything froze as the Dark washed over him. Then, with a feral scream, the Wolf of the Abyss ripped his sword from the earth and flipped into the air, somersaulting and slamming his sword downward, barely missing the Undead.

The figures darted in every direction; the giant stepped back and prepared an arrow which was dodged without effort, whilst the smaller humans circled around and attacked him and the wolf remained beyond. One of them failed to conceal her hesitation, and so he parried her blows and attacked them first; they leaped out of the way, but were caught by the flat of his sword and tossed across the arena. Something deep ached at the sight of that particular human being struck by his hand, but it was overwhelmed; first by a pang of alarm which saw him spinning away from a downward slash, then uninhibited fury which fueled his signature, retaliatory slash.

He felt the presence behind him more than he sensed it, leaping away and flinging dark sludge at the bowman who hoped to impale him with one of his arrows. As he landed, he fluidly brought his sword above his head into a downward slash aimed at the assassin, then into a slash at the Undead, then into a roll away from the group entirely. Roaring a challenge, Artorias slid forward on the sludge collecting at his feet, thrusting with his sword and shattering the giant's great bow whilst slashing upwards, knocking his helmet askew and drawing blood from his chin. He would have followed up with his double-spin, slicing his knees and then stomach open, if not for the intervention of the Undead, whose inexplicable strength hoisted him like a banner atop its pole before tossing him away, crumpled on the ground and cradling the perfect hole in his stomach.

The Abyss stopped his suicidal charge, reaching out and into him through the hole in his stomach, and Artorias found it hard to be angry with it anymore. Rather, his rage grew with the pain; a low, discomforted moan parted his lips and shook his arms, leaving him blissfully unaware of the vortex of Abyssal mist swirling and coalescing around him. A piercing cry - filled with just as much fury as there was distress - cued the vortex's implosion, wreathing him in the Abyss's foul essence and creating the visage of nightmares when he crouched, leaped up into the air, and thrust his sword tip-first into the spot where the assassin had once resided.

He spun again, then brought his sword up to defend himself when the assassin had her turn. His frustration piqued almost immediately, as his empowered dexterity still wasn't enough to hit the twirling figure as she dug deep into his form, opening his armor and twisting his limbs with the turning of her wicked blades. Shouting filled his ears, but he could not tell if it was from any of his foes or the denizens of the Abyss; snarling, he leaped away from the assassin with a roundhouse slash, quieting the voices and giving him much needed space.

Without warning a piece of the giant's great bow clubbed him in the shoulder, sending him staggering backward and retching with shock. Before he could recover, the Undead rolled forwards, unsheathing a short-sword and thrusting it as they came to a stop, burying it deep in his leg. The Wolf of the Abyss yelled, smacking the Undead away and weaving away from another swing of the giant's improvised weapon with a yowl, the wound in his stomach re-opening even as the one in his leg widened. He stood, hunched over, and felt the Abyss returning to aid him as the assassin swept over his shoulders, stabbed between his shoulder-blades, and dragged them down his back with her.

He fell forward, barely supporting himself with his sword before he could fall face-first into the ground. Even his now-prodigious wrath could not lend him the strength he needed to stand; instead, he found himself easing towards the ground whilst searching wildly around him, oblivious to the discomforted groans of the Undead and stifled sobs of their partner. _Where's Sif, is she safe!? Wasn't she here with me? Why did she leave what did I do what happened to her why is she gone..._

Every single desperate plea went unanswered, as the voices finally remained silent.

* * *

Well, I'm frustrated with my continued delays, but we made it! 8,000+ words, one of the series' most prolific characters out of the way, and one step closer to completing the fic!

I would like to thank the fantastic **Lucifer.M** for their help with this chapter; I asked them to beta-read the chapter to pick out anything I needed to clean up, and I am glad they accepted my request. (I'd forgotten that Gough's weapon was broken - among other things - but fortunately it was fairly easy to rewrite).

So, up next is Kalameet. I'm not too sure how I'm going to handle this one - I've got some ideas, but don't have a perfect understanding of the Stone Dragons yet - so I might do a little research before I start putting down my initial ideas.

So long, and I hope you're enjoying!


	18. Window 18 - Black Dragon Kalameet

Kalameet paced around the rocky cuesta - about as unique and exquisite as the 368 other cuestas he had passed during his flight - and scanned the pitted surface of the sleeping world for the 'bright lights' as his friend had described to him. It always took far too long for his liking to find whatever rare baubles he'd been sent to fetch, even if time was simply a novelty for his kind, but this search was particularly testing of his prodigious patience; there had been absolutely no sign of what was described to-

A weak, light-blue-light poked out from a small nook in the surface; upon closer inspection, the crystal was the correct color and general shape. With great care, Kalameet removed the curious object from the ground and clutched it tightly as he took off.

Along his return path, he flew close to several other dragons - each of differing size and general physiology - but they never exchanged even glances. He did not mind; dragons were often solitary creatures, and so gatherings within the Archtrees dotting their world were rare enough. In spite of the distance between individuals, he could still discern every minute detail of their bodies, and be in awe of their power, their speed, their normalcy...

He let those thoughts drift with the wind behind him, diving into the crevice of an Archtree and into the depths of their world.

It did not take him long to find the marks of his friend's arrival, no doubt to make the venerable, stone-bark growth his new place of research; he was never truly capable of flying, and as a result could only launch himself into the air to glide on his wings. This conveniently left an open path through which Kalameet could glide through with ease, barely even angling his body to evade broken branches and fit into unnaturally shaped holes. Eventually, he came to a stop at the heart of the Archtree - a hollow, open space, dominated by snaking roots and dim light - and found himself holding the crystal in his mouth as he walked to the dragon awaiting him.

As he turned, Kalameet received a stark reminder that his relative ostracism - despite bearing the Calamitous Eye, marking him as the Harbinger of Calamity - paled as much as Seath's skin in comparison. The appropriately-titled 'Paledrake' turned on the spot, his tentacles scraping across the ground even as his arms felt and searched for features to grab and ground his sense of place. The lighting of the Archtree's depths did nothing to alleviate the grotesque nature of his skin, stretched tight in such a way that they revealed his faux, crystalline scales and seemed almost unable to withstand the pressure of his skeleton pressing against it. With a haggard hiss of satisfaction, Seath turned his shimmering head towards Kalameet, his eyeless gaze finding him amidst the chaos of the Archtree's roots.

That was not to say he was entirely blind, as Seath moved forward with otherwise uncharacteristic candor. "Ah, Kalameet, it is- erm, it is good to see you have returned." His isolation - caused by both his body and mind - had left him with both an unusual cadence and unusual attachment to Kalameet, and so the Bringer of Calamity was forced to step back as the Paledrake breached his own space. "I see you have... returned with what I sought, yes?"

Unnerved - it was one of Seath's rarer episodes, where he was alien and unreachable even to him - Kalameet simply nodded and offered the treasure, staring at the space around him and then at Seath's wings when the latter had turned to his workplace. The insectoid growths, thin and light as they were, moved even with nary a breeze to be felt, catching the ambient light and scattering it throughout the world and into his eye. They, in particular, were the object of Seath's ire whenever the conversation turned inevitably to his deformities; he described them as the ultimate insult, as if showing that he could not even have the false-stone wings of his kin.

Whilst he would never state it for fear of the Paledrake's reaction, Kalameet always wanted to describe them as stunning.

The abnormal dragon gave an indignant huff as he looked away, tearing Kalameet out of his reverie with his stilted muttering. "Of course, of- of course you won't listen, won't you, you always held an insipid view... of whatever rare curiosity was my current study." He turned, leering towards him even as his fingers searched the surface of the crystal. "Nevertheless, I appreciate your... being forthcoming regarding my request. I..." He paused, staring into space as if forgetting himself, then held the crystal close to his chest, gazing at it as if it could grant him whatever he wished. "I had heard rumors of such a precious bauble before, but... Never, _never_ could have _imagined_ it was truly as was described... Like staring into a lake made of ash..."

The two dragons remained where they were for some time - Kalameet debating whether or not to return after Seath's episode had concluded, the Paledrake staring at the crystal and mumbling incoherently under his breath - when Kalameet's vocal chords moved of their own accord. Seath's head snapped upwards, staring, before he found his words. "You wish to... You wish to understand, yes?"

Having already dug too deep, the Bringer of Calamity barely had the chance to nod before Seath rushed forward, extending the crystal forward in his hands as if desperate to give it away.

He could not take it without assuming an embarrassing condition - that was one situational, meager concession offered to Seath by his mutations - but he could still stare at the otherwise unassuming crystal, searching for whatever may have so thoroughly captivated his friend. Occasionally something would flicker across the crystal's surface, as if something within was seeking release, but still Kalameet could find no reason to focus any further on the crystal.

He glanced away for a moment - just a moment, to glimpse over Seath's shoulder some sort of rock which had fallen from his workplace - before shaking his head and stepping back. Kalameet's apology- _I'm sorry that I don't get your interest, Seath_ \- was erased before it could leave his mouth when his gaze returned to the Paledrake, who remained still, gazing at the space in front of him. As the Bringer of Calamity stepped forward, a leg tentatively reaching forward in the hopes of snaring his attention, Seath lunged forward and grabbed his friend by the shoulders, staring with complete fixation on Kalameet's eye. "You did- you, you did something _extraordinary_!"

Whatever he had done must have excited the Paledrake to no end, as he spun on the spot and raced over to his workplace, crystal broken on the floor and forgotten. "I do not understand... Yes, this is something truly extraordinary, a brilliant marvel that has graced us with its presence! I wonder... I wonder, did it ever occur to you what... erm, what being the Harbinger of Calamity may have implied?"

Kalameet leaned from side to side, dreading the coming discussion topic. Seath, oblivious to his friend's distress, returned and stopped at his usual distance, holding a collection of curios close enough to make him step back. "Tell me, please just tell me, what was it about the crystal that prompted your... apotheosis? Improper, but not too much. Anyway, do these hold any significance? Can you see, yes, can you... erm, react to these?"

Seath spun on the spot and hurried back to his workplace; there was absolutely no reaching the Paledrake when he was this invested in a project, further than one of Kalameet's current withdrawals. "Did others speak to you, ask about your Mark? I can't imagine they wouldn't have tried to understand, but of course no one wants to understand, which is why I must ask."

He did not respond, although it was because of the lack of room Seath was leaving to respond, and _certainly not_ because he did not want to talk about his eye at all. In any case, his friend had stilled; he could practically hear the Paledrake's thoughts racing around in his head, his hands twitching occasionally and eyes darting around as he worked through another of his "serendipitous developments". He would indeed be lucky if Seath chose to abandon whatever query he had now, and luckier still if he did not bring it up repeatedly for the next few visits; he had done so when he discovered some kind of spark within an Archtree, muttering nonsensically about the bizarre sensations it brought about.

A ginger hand grasped the tip of one of Kalameet's wings, and he looked up to find Seath staring at him. "When you enthralled me, so to speak, when I showed you the crystal, I could not understand, but now I think I do... at least by some measure, yes, some measure!." He edged backward, then spread his arms outward. "Empathic magic!"

At this point, Kalameet was so thoroughly confused by what was occurring that he simply quirked his head to the side.

Seath paced around, gesticulating with more excitement that Kalameet had seen in him. "Of course you stumble through the fog, unaware of the truth, but so do I - at least with a light. You were bored - yes, indeed, you can hide your emotion from others, but not me - and when I glanced at your distinguishing feature-" _Distinguishing feature, hm?_ He wondered how Seath had parsed that shred of emotion from his aura whilst he continued. "-I, too, found my elation gone, to have... undergone evanescence! After reflecting upon the conundrum, yes, it struck me that perhaps your eye - your 'Mark of Calamity', so to speak - was perhaps projecting your emotional state onto mine!"

He slithered forward, leaning in close and grinning, exposing his pearlescent teeth. "You did not want to be here, and so you made me feel likewise! Perhaps this could also serve as a conduit for affecting others with thought, with your will, but to be sure..." He moved around aimlessly - the Paledrake seemed awfully fond of moving around during his periods of excitement - before coming to a stop in a pool of the Archtree's ethereal light and standing as if expecting something. Like an iridescent crystal he stood still - barely even twitching in place - before crossing his arms and huffing impatiently, yet radiating a curious reverence. "Well? Show me... Give me what makes you _dragon_."

Show him what? Kalameet had an idea as to what request lurked behind Seath's schizophrenic diction, but not even the faintest as to how it could be done. He hadn't even understood what was happening until the eccentric fool had told him of it, nevermind how it was done; he would have better luck convincing another dragon to brood with him amidst the clouds above.

His mind's eye glowed; to escape from all his troubles and take flight, away from disgusted glances and snapping jaws that plagued his existence below would be the ideal path to take. Nothing could touch him - not pain, not infamy, not grief, and not even manipulation - in his domain, his kingdom in the skies of their world.

A marveled sigh broke his focus, and his eye's light faded with the Paledrake's contentment. Shaking himself, the Bringer of Calamity looked up quizzically at Seath, who - for the first time in his presence - appeared to be pensive and wistful, staring at his arms as they glinted in the dim light. His jaw opened just a fraction, before shutting itself as he turned and disappeared into the Archtree with a string of fading mutters. A million different possibilities weaved through his head and into his vision; chasing after him, pondering how inconsiderate his compliance truly was, even prompting Seath to speak of his discomfort.

Perhaps he truly was a bad omen for all dragons, given how he could not bring himself to care enough about his friend's plight to remain in the Archtree.

* * *

The Archtrees were more recognizable than one would expect, given that they were still partially ablaze.

And yet something was intrinsically wrong with them; Kalameet could feel it his bones, when he wasn't struggling to reconcile his existence with the fact that he could now recall a time _before_ , as well as a time currently occurring and a time that would come _after_. The familiar gray coloration they had adorned in the times before - an involuntary shudder wracked his form and shook his flight path - had been charred into a disconcerting color unfamiliar to him, which in turn had changed again as they warped and curled inwards, unable to withstand the force of alteration grazing and grinding it into oblivion.

Truly, what those Witches of Chaos were practicing was unnatural as they warped the world around them.

And yet they were still the only hope of the fleeting silhouettes desperately seeking refuge from the blinding bolts of energy that ripped and shattered and brought _pain_. If he looked closely, he could just discern the various forms of his people; some roared in defiance, others mewled in terror, but all of them were struck and exposed to dichotomy before they were cut down by silver blades and sadistic, gleeful humans.

Humans; gods, Wondrous Beings, _mortals_ , the lot of them who had emerged from within the Archtree that Seath had marked as unconventional due to the bizarre energy emanated by dragons themselves, yet intrinsically different. Whatever their _souls_ were, they burned, defying everything that was by existing - I am here, and I think, so therefore I Want - and... and...

A cluster of discordant cries emanated from beyond the ridge; another party, no doubt searching for clutches of eggs to shatter and toy with. Kalameet set aside his thoughts with the burning Archtrees before him and took flight, quickly picking out the mortals amidst the chaos - chaos of noise, chaos of color and concepts and _pure_ _ **madness**_ _and_ \- landing amidst them in a fluid motion which also saw his tail decapitate the group's apparent leader. He must have missed, since a rallying cry saw them ready tiny contraptions adorned with more silver and more lightning. Deciding that they had graced him with their presence long enough, Kalameet slashed and smashed with his claws when he didn't immolate them or ensnare their minds with his Mark. It had taken much work, but Seath had encouraged him to "develop the Mark... improve upon, yes, refine its effects and your command of its effects", and he had done so, having become capable of projecting concepts he had yet to experience.

That brought him back to his original musings in time with the wet smack of the last mortal's corpse returning to the ground: The souls, the _flames_ , they were taking his people, they had taken _Seath_ , his one friend and confidant, and all because they _Wanted to_! The storm roiling in his mind projected itself unbidden, drawing screams from the souls still buried within their former vessels until Kalameet had momentarily satiated his bloodlust. Still, he could not lose hope; perhaps Seath's deformities had shown their usefulness in the ongoing conflict and protected him from the sunlight's rays, unlike his other kin who rotted in the Gravelord's intemperate grip.

Resolved, Kalameet returned to the skies - now as unsafe as the world's surface, filled with streaking bolts and orbs of light - and searched the ground for a sign of his abnormal companion. His focus on the ashen earth below would not result in immediate retribution, for there were no other dragons in the skies, and yet he wished for such a distraction, as there were no signs of the Paledrake or his ill work on the mortals.

A flurry of lightning bolts - at least two dozen sizzling streaks of painful dichotomy - forced him closer to the ground. Glancing up at the blackened skies, the Bringer of Calamity deemed it safer to remain where his muddy-green marble scales would not be at risk, narrowing his form and coming to a stop within a trench which may not have been natural, if the dead dragon at the end was any indication.

The dragon hiding amongst its remains, however, was not nearly as fortunate, whimpering and cradling a foreleg burnt and mangled by the weapons of souls. Kalameet's body moved forward without his permission - even as the wounded dragon attempted to recede further into the exposed skeleton of its larger cousin - and found himself in control only once he was staring down at their face. A resounding explosion snatched Kalameet's attention for but a moment, and returned to the dragon as they glared at him with unadulterated disgust.

"You... you're that omen... the Bringer of Calamity..." They coughed up an alarming amount of blood, and shifted their weight on what Kalameet realized was a ruined stump. "I knew your coming heralded dark times... we all did, and behold how-"

A severe coughing fit silenced the dragon, and fueled by panic the smaller dragon reached for the other's chin, pulled their gaze towards his, and gathered his thoughts. With just a touch of effort - he had been overwhelming his reserves with how frequently he invoked the Mark - Kalameet gathered his inner energy and coursed it through his mind, enshrouding it with comfort and projecting it into that of the dragon's. As the Mark did its work, the dragon's features visibly slackened, and when the exchange was concluded they rested with more calm than they no doubt experienced when they were found.

"You've... you saved me? You have no reason not to, I suppose." With a shake of their head, the dragon lifted themselves up, and shoved Kalameet aside as they spat a fireball at the ledge above them; various screams and furious shouts gave all the evaluation they needed, and their attention was once more on the Bringer of Calamity. "But I imagine you do not wander the fields of battle to bring comfort to neglectful kin; you seek the Paledrake, do you not?"

They exchanged nods one after the after, and the wounded dragon glanced to the side. "I cannot divulge his current whereabouts, for that I do not know. However, I can tell you where I saw him last: a short flight's distance away, where the Archtrees no longer tower and the wretched mortals gather. I doubt he has survived for as long as you have, but I also doubt that will stop you."

With a quick nod of thanks, Kalameet tore free of the earth's jaws, twisting to confuse the enemy's artillery down below and speeding towards the void in the sky. Already he could detect the teeming masses of men and gods amidst the dunes of broken dragons, preparing fortifications and gathering before those who commanded the Wondrous Beings' armies whilst they aided the vanguard of the Flame's ambition. Amidst them, completely unharmed and observing the developments without evident concern, was none other than Seath.

He did not pause to consider the dangers inherent in trusting his friend's integrity; he only recognized the dangerous forces around him, and immediately resolved to extricate him from their greedy clutches. He descended from the cover of the clouds, weaving through volleys of arrows and cries of warning with expert agility as he closed in on his imprisoned companion.

Seath turned his blind head upwards and pointed a finger at the Bringer of Calamity; he had no time to even begin planning evasive maneuvers before the sickly white beam arced downwards and passed through his wing.

It did not sever it, but the pain wracked his form as if it had. Uttering a terrible screech of agony, Kalameet plummeted towards the encampment with barely enough strength to keep from falling head-first to the ground, instead gouging the earth from the splintered gates to the staging area directly before Seath's podium. His head shaking with agony, he studied the arrangement before him - Seath, standing _alongside_ the superintendents of the Wondrous Beings' armies - and then his wing, jolting in alarm as rapidly spreading webs of black perverted and corrupted his scales, leeching their unfathomable durability from them and sending ripples of nausea through his already fatigued body.

He managed to lift himself onto quivering legs as Seath called out to the Wondrous Beings' forces. "I have stripped him of a dragon's quintessence, or his invulnerability, I should say! Incapacitate him, yes, bind him and bring him before me, but be wary of his eye, his Mark!"

His Mark of Calamity, thanks to Seath's equally ignorant experiments, was found to be capable of projecting whatever emotions and concepts Kalameet was experiencing onto whoever he wished, as well as those he did not. The situation around him, subsequently, could have been dealt with via numerous, equally effective solutions; make himself undetectable to his would-be wardens, drive them to such depths of despair that they would immediately surrender, or even inveigle them to stand by his side, leading a devastating counterattack on the main armies commanded by the Wondrous Beingss.

The black dragon would have given thought to each path ahead of him, were it not for Seath's presence and seeming power over those filthy obstacles before him. He had betrayed their friendship - _betrayed_ _ **him**_ \- and thus only the path stained with blood drew his attention.

Kalameet took a breath and exhaled forcefully whilst spinning on the spot, expelling a gout of flame blackened by whatever curse the Paledrake had unleashed and immolating the unlucky souls who had dared to approach him. He could see the ominous artillery pieces, their gunners, and even the lightning-wielders turn their weapons on him, even as they hesitated at the thought of inadvertently killing their comrades. Eager to punish their foolishness, he made a bounding leap towards the crude fortifications - swiping with tail and claw with the clattering of wood and limbs on the ground as his reward - then fluidly pounced back onto the ground and charged for the podium, killing whoever dared to step forward in defense of their commanders.

For every five paces Kalameet made, Seath retreated one, muttering nervously and twisting his fingers into awkward angles to gather a pale mist into his hands. _No doubt that's the weapon that crippled me_ ; determination to have the last laugh flared, and he threw himself forward as the Paledrake slithered backward with his wings outstretched.

His beautiful, delicate, insectile wings. Schadenfreude, an unfamiliar yet welcome sensation akin to a mild itch, rippled through the black dragon. _I'll take those first_.

Kalameet leaped onto Seath, grappling him and pinning his appendages to the ground as he seized the traitor's head and turned it to face him. Deliberating over what he wanted to say - to voice his betrayal, or disgust, or desolation - he opted for an omnifarious silence as his Mark blazed with a fierce orange light. Seath's spine immediately contorted as quickly as he screamed, the Mark of Calamity bringing about age unnatural for even one with a soul; his substandard scales further atrophied and stretched across his form, the ice-blue light of his aura flickered and shrank, and his brilliant wings crinkled and frayed.

The Bringer of Calamity had every intention of continuing his torture, but was denied when he felt the penetration and tug of ballistae spears attempting to pull him away from the Paledrake. Every iota of his being demanded that he keep striking, as his Mark had left the traitor vulnerable enough to be killed if the huddling form of his former friend was any indication. Nevertheless, he took to the air and retreated from their sight, reluctantly accepting that Seath had sufficiently paid for the unforgivable betrayal, in that he would never be able to enjoy it to its fullest extent.

And yet he would have the last laugh, for his scales - as faulty and diminished as they were - were pure and intact, unlike his.

* * *

It had been a spur of the moment decision; many would not pause if they had been asked to explain why they had made such a choice, but Kalameet rarely took action without careful deliberation. He could not, as a result, give a single reason as to why he had been swayed a particular way; he may have felt lonely, perhaps his bitterness had yet to crumble into a backdrop of hurt, or it may have been a flight of fancy.

Nevertheless, the end result was that he found himself making a stealthy approach to what was referred to by the people of Anor Londo as 'the Duke's Archives'.

He was not foolish; he had taken the utmost care, and already come alarmingly close to being discovered by patrols twice since he had begun his incursion before dawn. What was more disconcerting for the black dragon was the seemingly lax security, as he had discerned a shockingly low number of sentries posted on the colossal walls, in spite of the sun's presence high in the sky. If their reputation was to be believed, the gods of Anor Londo would never have allowed any being to risk breaching their defenses - never mind the last surviving Stone Dragon - and thus the ease with which he had been able to approach the city and ultimately the home of the gods' most revered scholars seemed incongruous.

He ducked back behind the ledge, balancing precariously on an outcrop near the mountaintop as another group emerged from the tunnel snaking into the earth from the archives. Kalameet stared at the outfit of sorcerers, quickly identifying the three taller figures as Seath's "channelers" - of what, he could not say - and the remaining crystalline figures to be their bizarre enforcers. Given the less-than-favorable rumors surrounding the good Duke and his research in recent weeks, he reasoned that they had been dispatched to recover more test subjects for Seath's clandestine experiments; they would not trouble him.

Of course, entering through the front door was tantamount to failure regardless of whatever actual danger he encountered at the other end, and so Kalameet continued along the uncharted, uncharitable path across the mountainside and to the - hopefully - unguarded rear of the complex. The few times he slipped and risked tumbling down the mountainside, the option of flight made itself known for consideration, but the black dragon's frustration could not overpower his caution; the frequent patrols would be more than ample enough to overwhelm him.

The terrain changed without warning, his claws digging deep into the surface of a glowing crystal, and after a moment's pause the dragon carefully pulled himself up onto the crude imitation of a cliff face. Scanning his surroundings, he found himself at the border between a small forest and what appeared to have been its unluckier cousin. The crystal spire he had surmounted was but one of many emerging at haphazard angles from the earth, spreading from patches of dirt to every tree in the vicinity and giving a fantastic sheen to those that weren't completely assimilated.

For a brief moment Kalameet could not find it within himself to comprehend the chaotic geology of the area, but wrote it off with what humans would have compared to a scowl. _It is Seath; he has no limits nor reason to entertain sensibility_.

It was only the pondering of that thought that lead him to realize he had no idea where the Paledrake was beyond the general area of the archives. It was doubtful that such bizarre natural phenomena - if it could be called that - would fail to pique the ravenous curiosity caged within the crystal dragon's taut exterior. The train of thought led the black dragon into the crystalline formation clutching onto the natural cliff-face, and down into the cluttered maw gaping before him.

For any grounded creature it would have been an exercise in both patience and coolness to reach the other end of the cavern, but Kalameet's wings - unlike his scales - were in perfect shape to dismiss such a meager challenge. As he had hoped, the distinct muttering of the traitor's speech emanated from the space beyond; filled with anticipation, the Bringer of Calamity paid no heed to the twisted sculptures and sickly air surrounding him, and he forged onward into the heart of the crystal cave.

The only reason he did not immediately dismiss the value of this cave - by virtue of it playing host to the same type of crystal throughout - was because he could see the aura emanated by... _something_. The fount of energy was obscured by what he initially thought was a mass of crystal, until with a jolt he noticed the emaciated wings of an insect, swaying as if held aloft by a breeze.

The former friend leaned to the side, neck twisted to tilt in Kalameet's general direction before returning to the object of his fascination, displaying what could only be a flippant disregard of the danger he posed. His friend was unwell, and the sickness did not stem from his Mark; he twitched and shivered in a humid environment, flicking his head around as if heeding the words of ghosts.

Whatever ailed the ancient dragon, Kalameet wanted no part of it.

As if recognizing his aura and longing for times past, Seath turned and locked gazes with him. Only a moment passed before the Paledrake lumbered forward, Seath's stare never leaving Kalameet's ruined form as he waved his hand at the aperture leading back to the world of fire. A barrier made its unpleasant presence known as the dragon backed into it, and before he could prepare himself further his old friend had invaded his space as if nothing between them had changed.

If his discomfort manifested in any of his non-verbal language - this was not how he imagined his encounter to go, and he wanted to abort it immediately - the traitor did not notice it. Instead, he brought a hand to his chin, humming in thought. His mouth opened, but whatever he was attempting to communicate, Kalameet could not comprehend it; it sounded distressingly like the malformed dragon had asked about his whereabouts. The dragon in question huffed and turned away, gazing at the crystal.

"Isn't it fascinating? The quintessence of reality, the primordial essence of dragons, all captured within a minuscule incarnation of evanescence... draining away..." The father of sorcery stared into empty space for a moment longer, hand frozen in the air in a grabbing pose, before he shuffled to the side and laid it on Kalameet's shoulder. "Please, come closer! Experience the confluence of serendipity before you! You can deliver on the test subjects you promised me at another date."

The two dragons stared and stared, only one of them feeling a content, innate understanding of the eldritch object amidst their incertitude; the other was preoccupied with confirming that the ambient light was not an Archtree's. He briefly pondered forcing himself out of Seath's grip and coercing him into releasing the barrier with the Mark, but quickly dismissed the idea. Whatever unnatural force flowed from the crystal, it was serving to empower the crystal dragon; he doubted he could do much when the object of his hatred was in such a state of...

...detachment. Whatever the crystal was, it was disconnecting Seath from something crucial, a key component that he seemingly alluded to without realizing its significance. The greedy human hoping to become a better person certainly wouldn't realize that possessing the riches they dreamed of would not change their soul.

He made to escape - he had long surpassed any wish to remain in this twisted realm, and noticed that Seath's barrier had faded in a lapse of concentration - as the mad dragon growled with uncharacteristic frustration and blasted a nearby wall, shattering its uneven surface and immediately replacing it with even more convoluted angles. " _Naturally_ you refuse to accept the dichotomy, but you _must_. You must, as reality's verisimilitude simply pales in comparison to the true nature, to the age-long-past!" He paced around the cave, oblivious to his colleague tentatively edging away, then stopped as randomly as he had started. "Of course, the terms you are familiar with cannot wrap themselves around, yes, perhaps so! I shall prepare a solution which will permit you to..."

His rambling fell on no ears at all, for Kalameet had barreled up to the surface with more haste and panic than he thought he could muster. He did not dwell on what it was specifically that led to his rejection of the crystal; instead, he reprimanded himself for ever setting foot near the archives and immediately threw himself from the cliff side, diving down towards the false earth of rock and life.

Thoroughly shaken, he waited until he was absolutely certain that the sentinels atop the wall would not be able to reach him - if they could still see him at all - before tucking his wings close to his body, skirting along the edge of a basin, and soared up into the sky near a waterfall. He briefly considered pausing to rest, but did not wish to run the risk of being discovered by the Paledrake; his last ill-fated attempt to put down the mad dragon ended poorly, and he would not allow it to-

An eruption of agony caused his body to briefly spasm in shock, eliciting a cry when he attempted to gain altitude and tore his wing further. Alarm kept him on the self-destructive course the great arrow had plotted, weakening him enough that he spiraled uncontrollably to the ground, and had a passing encounter with the oblivion that surely awaited all beings nowadays.

* * *

Strangely enough, the catalyst of his awakening was not the ammunition lodged through his wing and into his shoulder. Rather, it was that his eye was just close enough to a trickle of water that it slowly eroded the heavy torpor that enveloped him.

A hiss wormed its way out of his mouth in the wake of what water had found its way inside. A tremor nearly sent the dragon sprawling on the ground once more, but he remained standing long enough to work his way from the edge of the cliff and towards one of the walls of the valley. Devoting only a small amount of his brain faculties to keeping an eye on the surroundings, the others were split between removing the great arrow and forcing himself to stay awake.

Visions of his experience removing great arrows after Seath's betrayal swam before him, but were dismissed as easily as they faded into being. Recalling the process he developed, he pressed the tip of the arrow against the rock wall and carefully breathed a stream of fire at the portion between his wing and body. As it evaporated with the preternatural flames, he shook his wing gently to remove the shaft and grabbed the arrowhead with his mouth.

As soon as he had collapsed - barely suppressing a cry after yanking out the arrowhead - he struggled to his feet and began searching for a safe place to recover.

He doubted he would have much time; if there were any archers of Anor Londo close enough to strike him dead-on, then there were doubtlessly more of their soldiers waiting nearby. Perhaps this was an orchestrated attempt on his life, schemed by the honorary Wondrous Being and set in motion by his peers atop the wall; perhaps his insanity was naught but deception. Seath had expected his presence, and had fashioned this plot, in the hopes of further impressing his masters... Or mayhap it was naught but an act of revenge. Revenge for his now-frail mind, as for his withering and crumbling body.

Perhaps they were merely in the right place at the right time, and hoped to capitalize on the risky opportunity presented to them with a streak of black.

Any other location in the forest was ruled out by default; even if he could fly, there was an uncomfortable amount of the Dark Anor Londo feared spread throughout the area. Unfortunately, the valley only lead to the fatal drop he extricated the arrow beside, which all but guaranteed that the soldiers of Anor Londo would find him eventually. Still, he had lasted this long through guile and stealth, and all he really needed to do was remain in hiding for the several minutes it would take for his wing to become functional again.

With few remaining options - none of which were favorable in the slightest - the dragon edged as close to the drop as he dared, then curled up beside one of the natural walls and hoped he hadn't been incapacitated by experienced dragon hunters.

He blinked, then blinked again, and ceased looking through his poor, cloudy eye in favor of his Mark; he needed to know the exact moment that they had arrived, as otherwise he would not see them in time to prepare his defense. He gave the area a quick scan, spotting only some local fauna and flora - both unharmed and corrupted - and settled down, briefly glancing around every few moments. Already his wing felt much better, thanks to the sickly but still-useful scales that made him invulnerable; perhaps, if he waited a bit longer, he would regain enough strength to escape.

Kalameet mused on how he would exact his vengeance on the fool who inflicted this pain on him, and just decided on paralyzing him with the Mark to begin with when he heard a drawn out scraping sound, followed by boots hitting the ground. The dragon crept towards the bend that separated him from the eyesight of the scout - for surely that was what they were - and tested his wounded wing, disgruntled that it still stung but relieved he could use it to some extent. The soul he could perceive was unlike those held by the elite soldiers imparted with the skill and power of the Wondrous Beings; perhaps they were finally stooping to the level of recruiting those short-lived apes into their service.

Then, he gave a start; they were no more significant than a few moments prior, but the soul was familiar. Looking back, he recalled seeing the human traversing the woodlands earlier, on a bridge when he rested on his journey to Anor Londo. They were distinct, but not for the unusual armor and weapons they carried, nor for the supple yet plentiful strength their soul radiated.

It was the void in their soul, a gaping maw that had more than an uncomfortably-passing resemblance to the aura of Seath's precious crystal.

Briefly, the black dragon weighed up his options. It seemed that the human was in the valley of their own volition - as ludicrous a thought as it was - and so they would have neither the means nor skill to truly pose a threat to even a weakened stone dragon like himself. But he had not lasted for thousands of years after the advent of the Wondrous Beings by underestimating his opponents. He resolved to attack with great ferocity, then escape once he had recovered.

The Bringer of Calamity vacated his refuge and approached the semi-spherical end of the valley, prolonging his gait and brightening his Mark. The human backpedaled, then reached for their bow, nocked an arrow, and shot at Kalameet's eye with the fluid motion of a seasoned archer.

It glanced off of the spot directly next to his eye, his stance holding with the solid discipline of a statue struck with a pick-axe.

Testing his wings, the black dragon took to the air and flew forwards, unleashing a gout of twisted flame and immolating a band of the valley floor. When he turned around to unleash another controlled jet, he leaped backward as the human swung a vicious mace at his feet. He remained at a distance, analyzing the human's fighting style, and picking out what weaknesses he could - such as the glaring opening in their left leg whenever they swung overhead.

He waited for such a moment, then charged.

There was no time for the human to evade the rapid tail-slash that nearly cleaved them in two - only leaving a deep gash and knocking them aside when their armor served its purpose - and only marginally longer to roll away from the claw that came crashing down. In a particularly thoughtless action they attempted to bat away one of Kalameet's swipes with their mace, and were rewarded for their efforts when the weapon was deflected into their chest, tossing them backward and face-down into the earth.

When they did not move for several moments, the black dragon left them; whether dead or merely unconscious, they would not be a threat for the remainder of his refuge. It was curious that the mark on their soul remained after death, as he assumed it was a curse that was leeching his life energy from him. Kalameet banished the train of thought; it was of no consequence whether or not he understood its nature, as it had no apparent bearing on the human's fighting capabilities.

A low, lethargic moan caught his attention, and Kalameet turned to see the human inexplicably hefting themselves to their feet. Wrenching the blood-caked weapon from their torso, they uncorked a golden flask and drank of its contents, healing their wounds in a manner that Kalameet could easily connect to the Mark's remedial capabilities. The precious glass returned to their hip, and the human once more recklessly assaulted the dragon. With apathetic swings, the Bringer of Calamity directed his hunter into vulnerabilities he desired, and barely even glanced their way when he brought his tail down for the killing blow.

They ducked under the attack and clutched the shaft of their mace, bringing it upwards in a brutal swing that connected with and broke the bone of Kalameet's right foreleg.

With a keening cry, the black dragon immediately took to the air and breathed fire down at the apparently-undead creature, who quickly escaped the deadly stream of antiparallel energies and returned fire with more arrows. A flush of panic surged through him before vanishing with his presence in the sky, returning to the other end of the valley to consolidate his position.

He clutched his wounded appendage close, stifling a whimper of anguish and the rising storm that threatened to overwhelm reason. While he could not depend on it to hold his weight, his wing had been restored to its healthy state during the battle. Determined never to let the undead catch him off guard again, the Bringer of Calamity leaped upwards and spat a volley of fireballs at his opponent, landing directly in front of them and standing upon his rear legs.

Piercing the haze gathering before his mind, Kalameet leered forward and lit his Mark ablaze, hefting the hunter up into the air with a sharp nod. Focusing his aura, the undead was no faster than even the dragons to process his situation before calamity befell them, gnawing at their peculiar soul and leaving it and their body withered. As quickly as they entered the air they left it, a wet thump and sharp crack heralding the grim work of Kalameet's companion.

The mistakes of the past hovered over his wing, and he loosed a jet of flame at the prone figure to make absolutely certain that they did not return to the fight. He watched - claws dug into the earth and primed for a quick launch - and tensed with every pulse of the human-shaped light, his previous blunder leaving him as uncertain as his early days amidst the obscuring fog and shrouded glances.

Their fire - bittersweet in its dissimilarity to the Wondrous Flame - fell silent.

A shiver ran through and shook his form with pain as its partner whilst he walked over to the valley wall and leaned gingerly against the wall. He briefly mused over the origins of the undead warrior, when his leg did not protest against the lack of attention; perhaps they were a new experiment of Seath's, an attempt to forge something from the strengths of both Fire and Dark, with the weaknesses of neither.

The incandescent power of the Wondrous Flame, with the stalwart longevity of the Dark. A bitter laugh forced itself out, as Kalameet dwelled on the utter indignity of the stone dragon's fate; to be stolen of their world and cheated of their one true birthright! The final rub of their salted wound, before the executioner's ax fell on the last of the world's masters.

When he turned to glare at the vessel of his loathing, he beheld nothing.

If there was anything he could still thank the Paledrake for, it was for teaching him - by proxy - the basic skills needed for "scientific inquiry". Pacing around the patch of mud their body had previously lain on, he scrutinized his memories for any indication that the undead could travel at rapid or instantaneous speeds, and dismissed it; why did they withhold such abilities during their confrontation? Perhaps the newfound magical discipline pioneered within the archives could afford such curios to Anor Londo's forces.

He lowered himself - delicately - onto the ground, staring at the ground and at nothing as the hours went by in his mind. Arriving at a dead end, he gave up on finding a conclusive explanation for the undead's existence, instead wistfully ruminating on the few pleasant interactions he had with other dragons after the survivors fled for the dark that Wondrous Beings never dared to tread in. None of them had lasted, and it was for their unenviable normalcy; whether they stood out too much against their cover or did not think to shy away from roving packs of dragon-slayers, they left him alone when the Wondrous Beings did not.

A call came from the ridge above, and in a past-addled fit of idiocy the Bringer of Calamity turned and stared at the undead's cloth as it spawned a familiar bolt of pain-

He heard rather than saw his body meet the valley floor once again, his forefeet clawing helplessly at the smoldering tissue that only minutes ago had saved him. He heard, rather than beheld, the footsteps of a predator approaching its prey, confident and yet relieved that the fight was at last over. He heard, rather than witnessed, the greenery be incinerated at the terrible, frantic misfire intended to keep away the undead from stripping him of what little worth he had left now that the Mark of Calamity had been defaced.

He felt, rather than saw, the rounded tip of the mace fall upon and press itself into his skull. It was a surreal sensation, as he - or, at least, his aura - wrapped around the metal construct and dissipated into the air, before being yanked into what could only be the dark blight. Sparing a glance behind him, the black dragon's body crumbled into ash, piling up on the earth and leaving behind nought but metallic ring and a clutch of memories in the few who survived his presence.

And yet - in the face of death, and after being given every reason to muse over the most important matters of his life - he wondered if those few who remained in power were acknowledging the inevitable, if they were preparing at all.

* * *

So... yeah, long time no see, eh?

There are a few reasons why it took so long for me to get this chapter out: I was writing about a character I (initially) had little interest in and knew little of, so I found it harder to start off than usual. Secondly, my family went through a hell of a loss a few weeks ago and I couldn't bring myself to write while I processed my feelings about it. _Thirdly_ , the school laptop that faithfully served me for the last three-and-a-half years finally died, and I had to shell out some money to buy a fancy new one.

Most importantly, though, is that I just kept putting it off.

I am really, truly sorry about this; my own laziness and insecurity about my writing kept hounding me; seriously, I hadn't felt this conflicted about what I was putting to paper since _Sif_. Still, neither of those are any excuse to leave you guys waiting for an update without any prior warning. I only hope that you can forgive me for leaving this unattended for as long as I have.

Now, the next chapter will focus on none other than the Father of the Abyss, the Primeval Man, the Furtive Pygmy, the MC Dark Lord of the series. While I don't know much more about him than I did about Kalameet, I have been taking what I do know about him - and the origins of the Dark Souls world - and using it to model the basics of his story. After that will be a return to Dark Souls 2, in the form of what is basically the most original piece to date: the Lost Sinner. I'm really excited for that in particular, since I've come up with some cool ideas as to how the shockingly-competent swordsman wound up in that cell.

Anyway, I again must apologize for keeping you. Thank you for your love and praise, and I hope to see you guys again soon.

P.S. Courtesy of discussion with my pal, I present to you **_the latest in Crack-Sh_** ** _ip_ _™ technology: SEATH/KALAMEEEEEEET!_**


	19. Update - Manus is sleeping

Hey guys; it's been a while! Not that it's much of a good thing.

I'm going to be brief; I haven't been feeling that great, and a part of that is because I just can't figure out how to write Manus' chapter well. Part of it is lack of energy, but I've never been particularly captivated by his character; as a result, I don't really have the inspiration to write a chapter that I feel does his character justice. Having discussed this with my friend, I've decided that I'm going to postpone his chapter until a later date, and instead move on to the Lost Sinner.

Sorry for the wait guys, but I promise I will get the next chapter out as soon as I can. Thanks so much for your patience, and I apologize for my absence.

\- Chaot1kShadow5

P.S. Given that this notice is more to give you guys time-relevant information, I'm probably going to remove this once the next few chapters are up.


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